


Sataareth (Re-Vamped)

by BelowBedlam



Series: Verity [11]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9824846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelowBedlam/pseuds/BelowBedlam
Summary: Sataareth, qunlat : “That which upholds.” An enforcer, defender, or foundation.A slightly different take on the possible repercussions of ‘Demands of the Qun.’ Bull is a hotter mess than usual, Kimani is the Inquisitor’s cousin, and the actual Inquisitor (Mahvir Lavellan) just wants everyone to get along.(re-written enough that I decided to re-post)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've made a few changes to Sataareth including what I feel is a stronger round of editing, so here we are with a reboot! 
> 
> Please let me know how you feel about the changes if you have read before (and thanks for reading again if you do), and if you're new, welcome!

Bull really likes the rain. Everyone thinks that he’s this huge warm spot and the southern seasons don’t matter either way to him and this is mostly true, but he still likes this bit of cold rain they’re having on the Storm Coast. He is thoroughly chilled from scalp to where the water seeps into boots he swears he’d patched up before leaving Skyhold. He has the inexplicable urge to tilt his head back, open his mouth, and let the storm cool him on the inside, too. He imagines feeling like someone hit by a mage’s icy spell.

It’s not even storming today, not really; there’s no thunder to really get his heart beating and besides, the crash and roar of the ocean is usually greater than the storms themselves around here.

So he’s back on the Storm Coast and he likes the rain, but he hates why they’re here. Why they’re actually here, not the reason his old friend had given to get him out here. He stands alongside Gatt like old times except it was never this cold in Seheron and his boss, a pretty, pointy elf named Lavellan, Mahvir Lavellan, who trusts him a little too much. They’re all still catching their breath after running through a couple camps of Venatori bastards scattered along the road to their destination, this ominous, dramatic-ass cliff they stand on like rulers, watching the slow move of bodies below. Enemy bodies, advancing with intent to slaughter. The Chargers, who are bodies and one body, unaware that death sneaks up the side of their hill. The great grey body of the ocean as it surges against the shore.

Heh. There’s this bit of poetry, something the boss’s freaky cousin had said about being swallowed whole by those waves, by the way the sea whispers. Bull had brushed it off as just some pretty words but he swears he can the sea’s whispers right now, slipping between the frantic rushes of blood in his ears: definitely voices, though he can’t hear a clear word and so the bastards aren’t helpful in the least. They don’t even give him a hint as to what to do, and Gatt is going to decide for him if the boss doesn’t and the boss…she’s sensitive. She’s sensitive and she thinks she’s in love with Krem, but she’s also beholden to her duty. Consumed by it, by needing to make the best choice. Her weakness is, and has been since Bull has known her, in the crossroads.

This Inquisition has brought upon them so many crossroads. So many hard choices.

Bull isn’t an idiot in the slightest. He realizes that he has been played by the Qunari in a game that, somehow, was always meant to bring him here, on this cliff, to this choice. Not only that, he has also played himself. Bull has been backsliding for a long time. Bull has been lost for a long time, and he’s tired; fuck, he is so, so tired. He’s been tired for year, tired since before he sat in a tavern somewhere in Orlais and decided that his name was The Iron Bull. These past years that have buffered the cold-fingered ghosts of Seheron, the taste of qamek and the ache of it in his veins, have softened him and stretched him too thin. So thin, he can hear his heart beating like a drum in his ear. That’s all he can fucking hear is the hopped-up thump of his heart in his chest. It  _hurts_.

“Gods, forgive me,” the boss murmurs.

There is a considerable group of Venatori headed towards his Chargers, and the chances of their survival upon contact are slim. Dalish is a good mage but she’s not that good, and Bull doesn’t yet know much about the boss’s cousin or her little gang of mages she’d insisted on bringing who are down there with him. He doesn’t put much hope there, not from what he knows about Tevinter.

This choice - to sacrifice or save, and  _what_ \- is his, but he doesn’t have to make it. He can and does let the boss make it with her silence. Her kin is down there and still she holds her tongue. That makes them the same.

So. They’re all gonna die down there and it’s gonna redeem him to the Qun.

The Venatori creep closer to the Chargers, and Bull steels himself; once they are dead, then it’s done. Once they’re dead he won’t be so lost. They’ll fight bravely, they’ll die well and they’ll have done their job, and Bull can find good Qunari solace in that fact. Watching them die will harden his resolve and re-train his tongue in the comforting verses.  _Anaam esaam Qun_.

He doesn’t close his eyes. He will carry the deaths of his men for the rest of his life.

But then he sees it. Or rather, he sees  _her_. A burst of white hair and angry orange flames as the boss’s cousin seemingly breathes fire upon the approaching soldiers, raising the tallest protective wall he’s ever seen as the Venatori rain their own magic on the Chargers. And Krem sees; even from this distance, Bull knows that his Lieutenant sees the Venatori and sees they won’t survive if they decide to fight back.

Bull thinks he sees the man look across the valley at him, as if he knows what had nearly happened to him was a choice, but Bull is projecting and he can hardly breathe, and all he can hear is a heartbeat that can’t possibly be his own, beating overtime.

The Chargers retreat.

Bull suspects a few of them don’t survive because the barrier goes up in tandem with the first enemy spells, but he watches the wave of his men fall back with the time given to them.

Time she had given.

Bull frowns. He doesn’t understand. But then, the dreadnought hasn’t exploded yet. It hasn’t yet set the sky on fire.

…  
  


Kimani does not like the Ben-Hassrath agent, The Iron Bull. She does not like that Mahvir- the Inquisitor and her cousin- adores him, and she _does not like_ that Mahvir has brought them all to the Storm Coast for this folly.

She is certainly not a fan of the way her elder cousin has left her to die, either. Not at all.

This is Kimani’s first time on the Storm Coast. She pulls her oilskin tight around her and breathes life into its woven-in sigils as she and the Chargers slip the grasp of death by a few moments and a protective spell that leaves her faint and bloody-nosed. She is weak from the shock and the force all at once; she’d seen Venatori where there shouldn’t have been any more Venatori and boom, there goes the majority of her mana. Thank the spirits that it holds long enough for them to get away, because if they’d had to fight after that? Dead, and Kimani has not traveled this far south to die on a soggy strip of Fereldan coastline under a Chantry banner, trying to forge a fucking Qunari alliance.

Spirits, the  _thought_. It’s embarrassing.

Krem claps her on the shoulder, his tawny skin gone ghost-pale. He doesn’t let her go as they push on, not even when everyone jumps at the explosion over the waves, the fire seeping red into a gray afternoon sky. Whatever has blown up: good, burn it all. Burn this whole gods-damned mission. Take her shitty cousin and the big horned bastard, too.

Krem squeezes, the pointed edges of his gauntlet digging in, and she hisses.

“Hey, ease up,” she says, prying him off of her. He looks at her, and then his hand, as if he hadn’t realized.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine Cremisus, er, Krem.” Kimani taps him on his chest plate. “You’re in shock but you’re all right, you know? Do you understand?”

“I understand a few things,” he says grimly, “and I know I have only you to thank for my life and the life of my men right now.” He casts them a brief glance over his shoulder. His hand skims the small of her back, urging her along with him. Almost protective.

Kimani shakes her head. “Don’t do that to me. I don’t want it.”

“Don’t want what?”

“To be the light on your mountain,” she says. “Your savior. We are a team and I saved the team, but I’m not some benevolence you can owe your life to. It’s yours, you take it and do with it what you will. Don’t give it to me.”

“But my lady,” Krem insists, holding her by the arms. Kimani swallows the urge to shove him because he is grieving for something; he forgets himself. She watches tears run down his face. Or maybe it is the rain. “My lady, you’ve just shown us more loyalty than either of our superiors, and we hardly know you. I won’t give you my life if you don’t want it, but you _are_ a benevolence.”

The Chargers have gathered around them and murmur their agreement. _Yes, yes_.

 _Spirits, no._ Kimani stumbles into Krem as a wave of dizziness crashes into her like the reckless sea below them.

“I’m fine,” she growls, but she’s too weak to put up a fight as Krem lifts her into his arms. It feels good to be off of her feet, but she scowls at him anyway; she is not a damsel and he is not quite a knight, and this is no one’s fairy story.

“Right. Allow me this and then we’ll call it even,” Krem says curtly, waiting for dissent that never comes before marching them and the Chargers on.

Kimani flings part of her oilskin over his shoulder in silent concession, even though she knows it’s a lie.

…

Bull doesn’t understand.

Gatt is going on about betrayal, about how the Chargers were never going to hold that outpost. How Bull had failed in that loyalty, how he’d given them the easier job on purpose because he’d already turned. He’s already Tal Vashoth.

And that’s not true. That can’t be true. He’d…he’d been  _ready_  to watch the Chargers die, ready to cement both this alliance and his place in the ranks. It had felt so good to hear Gatt call him Hissrad, good to be back in the midst of a Ben-Hassrath scheme with other Ben-Hassrath. He had been ready to greet the souls on the dreadnought, to speak Qunlat and fall into the simplicity of his people.

But now… this is not what is supposed to happen and he is not supposed to feel this way. The choice was made. He’d made it.

Krem is looking him in the face with so much rage that Bull has to fight between guilt and brimming relief that his lieutenant isn’t dead. He is so happy that Krem isn’t dead.

Fuck, this doesn’t make sense.

The boss is arguing with her cousin in elven, and Kimani snaps back in Rivaini. Both women look like they cry in the rain but only Mahvir sounds like it. They understand each other as if they speak the same language; the boss had described it as finding peace in the crossfire. They argue like a snake and its stupid, courageous prey, and in this dance the boss is definitely not the snake.

“Hissrad.”

Gatt is still livid; he snarls at Kimani when she curses him, and glares at Bull with poorly contained rage. 

“Hissrad, what do you have to say?”

Bull has absolutely nothing to say; it’s like his tongue has been replaced with lead, his common sense lost at sea. Dalish won’t look at him.  _Dalish_  won’t look at him.

But she’s supposed to be dead, so.

There are too many eyes on him. Too many fucking eyes.

And he has nothing to say.

So he leaves. He turns and simply walks away because, fuck, he has been given something and he doesn’t know what it is, and he needs to get away from all of the eyes.

The Storm Coast is a wide expanse of hill and rock and valley; Bull makes his way toward a cropping of stone though he doesn’t move much faster than his usual gait, because who’s going to follow him?

“Chief!” Krem yells, and Bull walks faster. Dumb kid needs to turn back and be glad he’s alive. Take what he can where it lay, because Bull has nothing for him. He barely has anything for himself.

“Krem! Cremisius!  _Lieutenant_!” Someone calls after Krem; Kimani’s weighty voice is like a roll of thunder, cracking with lightning strikes of fatigue. She’d expelled a considerable amount of energy in saving their lives and yet she’s chasing after Krem, who is chasing after him.

Krem ignores her. “Fuck, Chief, say something! Don’t give me your back,” he growls, ignoring the mage who sounds so far away.

Bull keeps walking. He still doesn’t understand what is happening. They were supposed to die and they aren’t dead, and everything has stopped because the choice was supposed to be made.

But it isn’t. And that, he thinks as he focuses on his steps and the soggy terrain in front of him, is what causes him to flee. Because the choice should be made whether they live or not. Because he’d chosen.

But he hasn’t, and it isn’t.

Or maybe, maybe it is. Because his men’s retreat has caused a dreadnought to explode on the sea. A hundred qunari souls for a handful of  _bas_ , and Bull isn’t angry with the Chargers. He’s just relieved that they live.

“Bastard!” Krem bellows, and Bull is a beat too late in realizing that it is a cry of attack; his lieutenant crashes into his back and they’re both falling, shouting in pain and anger, their voices hiccupping on impact with the ground.

Bull sees red for a second in a way he hasn’t in a long time and he moves quicker than even his quick mind can follow, climbing back to his feet and bringing Krem with him. His hand around the kid’s neck is supposed to be a warning because Bull can’t find words at all.

 It’s much meaner than a warning, and a lot tighter. Not good for windpipes.

Krem kicks at him with the points of his boots, but Bull holds on. Squeezes.

Then Bull is yelling, screaming because his arm is on fire, the flames he can’t see licking just under his skin and searing him from the inside. He drops Krem and waves his arm around in the fickle rain, gritting his teeth to keep quiet and failing. His arm isn’t even red, no blisters, not burns, just lit aflame by a flameless fire.

Magic.  _That fucking w-_

Before Bull can finish his thought, he shrieks at sharp blow to his bum knee before Kimani slams into him with more force than should be possible for someone her size.

But, magic.

Bull crashes to the ground, prone on the soggy grass with this bitch suddenly heavy his chest and her stave pressed up against his neck near to choking. He feels his head sink into the mud, and time finally slows down.

“Next one will be true fire, except this rain won’t put it out,” Kimani pants, bending close to him so he can hear her words beneath the wind. Their noses nearly touch. At the very least, all of her hair shields them from the rain while she threatens to choke him out and burn him to a crisp.

“Fuck you,” Bull rasps, eye rolling when she presses the stave harder. He grips her waist as if to throw her off of him, but he’s not quite sure that he wants to run the risk.

“Go ahead and try me. Call my bluff,” she goads him. Her amber eyes are dull in the storm, like hard stone in the dark. “Please, Hissrad, call  _me_  a liar.”

Fair point. Bull releases her in a show of good will, laying his hands flat out on the ground, but she only retreats slightly when he makes a sound like he’s choking. Which he isn’t. He just wants a bit of quarter.

“Just needed to walk,” Bull tries, swallowing.

“You and my cousin almost killed me,” Kimani says slowly, “Me and all your men. You don’t get to walk away and think about it. You don’t get to fucking ponder. You stand there and take it and be glad that’s all you have to do.”

She’s shaking; she’s still fatigued. But he won’t try her, because mages are like snakes that way. And she’s not a weak one.

Bull tries something else. “I regret-”

“-I don’t care,” she laughs hoarsely. “I truly, wholly, fully do not care. And you owe me nothing. It’s _them_ you need to lie to. Craft a heart from what’s left of this facade.”

“Please, Lady,” Krem calls, coughing. Bull closes his eye. He’d nearly choked the kid out, nearly killed him for a second time, and he’s still…fuck.

Kimani looks at Bull as though she can hear his thoughts. She looks like a sad specter, inhumanly white hair a dull glow around deep copper skin, strong features pulled down as she frowns. There’s a smear of blood just beneath her nose, staining the jewelry that hangs from her nostrils. More gold glints from between her eyes. She’d be pretty if she weren’t part of the reason Bull has fallen into a mess of himself.

The mage considers him a moment longer, and then shakes her head. “The Inquisitor wants him back. We need to get off this wretched beach,” she calls to Krem, pulling her stave away from Bull’s throat and climbing off of him. When he stays down, she jabs in him the stomach with the butt of her stick. “No time for this, not here. Let’s go. Get up,” she says to him, jabbing him again. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”

But she had; his knee is on fire. Still, he climbs to his feet and follows them back.

Krem and Kimani walk shoulder-to-shoulder like old friends; she leans heavily against him, her arm like a vice around his waist. Neither of them look back at him, but it’s not like he has anywhere else to go.

*

Later, Gatt tells Bull that he has to send his report and wait to see what they say about it because a dreadnought has been lost, and it is technically Bull’s fault; his men didn’t hold their position.

“This doesn’t help your case, Hissrad,” Gatt says, smoking a harmless tobacco pipe as they sit in his tent. He’d started it in Seheron, smoking to calm his nerves. “They already think you’ve defected. You said these  _bas_  soldiers were loyal to a fault, and look.”

“The mage isn’t mine,” Bull tries, though it falls flat even on his own tongue.

“But the troops that retreated instead of standing to fight are. They were only to move on your signal. But they moved on hers.”

Bull scoffs. “You put in that report that the strange mage made them do it, and they might kill you, too, for talking stupid.”

Gatt laughs softly, nodding. But just as quickly, the smile fades away.

“You could kill your second-in-command. For insubordination. That’d help,” he says seriously, rubbing his chin, “because right now it just looks like you told them something different than you told me. Same way those reports were supposed to be secret. Same way our involvement was supposed to be secret.”

“Thought you understood, Gatt. About how it works out in the field.” Bull is not killing Krem. He’s already failed at that twice in one day.

“I can understand the missives but officially, this is too much. Maybe kill your second, and kill the witch as well,” he adds thoughtfully.

“That’d be causing war between us and the Inquisition.” Bull drums his fingers against his thigh.

“Well, we sure as fuck aren’t allying with them anymore. The Inquisitor’s kin is part of the reason we lost a dreadnought. A _dreadnought_ , Hissrad. So you tell me that two  _bas_  souls - A vint and a mage, no less - aren’t disposable enough to try and pay for a hundred qunari and one of our most prized vessels.” Gatt watches him through a haze of smoke, his expression schooled to a blank slate.

So, that’s how it is; even Gatt expects the worst from him if he’s hiding behind his mask.

But then, this whole things was a test and Gatt is testing him even now. They’d tested him by sending Gatt in the first place, and by the nature of the mission. Gatt had known he’d give his boys what seemed like the easier task, and somehow Gatt had known that there would be an impasse. He’d known about the Venatori on the ground. Or he’d hoped.

Shit, Bull can’t think straight, can’t follow the veins of logic embedded beneath it all. But he knows that this is a test.

And he knows that he is about to fail.

“I’m not killing anyone,” Bull says quietly, meeting Gatt’s eye. “Not the vint, not the mage.”

His old friend scoffs. “Not even to save your ass.”

“Not even to save my ass.”

“Well, then,” Gatt leans forward, blowing smoke out his nose, “you need to get out of my tent so I can write my letters. You need to go back to Skyhold with your Inquisition until I get a response. And you need to watch your back.”

Bull sneers. “Gonna try and kill me, Gatt?”

“Me, personally? No,” Gatt shakes his head, chuckling. “That’d be silly, Hissrad. You can go.”

Bull does go. He can’t really do anything else but go.

Outside, the rain has stopped and they are far from the coast. Their camp is well pitched and as dry as possible out here. The onslaught of post-rain insect swarms are warded off by their campfire. It’s late but the fire blazes, seemingly for an audience of one. Kimani leans into it as if she isn’t afraid of oblivion, warming herself like a cat. The flames cast her hair bright orange, dancing shadows over an expanse of cloudy tresses. She’s clad in her breast band and a pair of soft, loose pants that he recognizes as Rivaini. The firelight dances off of her bruises, too; a big purple one blossoms over her right shoulder, the one she’d rammed into him with. Lighter bruises splotch her waist and stomach.

Any other day and Bull would high-tail it over to where the Chargers keep their own fire, but he is not welcome. Stitches is probably tending to Krem’s throat, Dalish certainly won’t look at him now, and between Rocky and Skinner, there’s probably an assault planned if he comes too close. Arrow in the neck, explosive to the face, something like that. The boss probably doesn’t want to see him, either. Dorian and Solas are most likely commiserating over their hate of qunari, and Bull can’t stomach the sly cut of their derision at the moment.

“The Inquisitor has declared the campfire a neutral zone,” Kimani says to him without turning. “If you want to sit, I technically can’t hurt you.”

Bull regards her a moment and when she finally looks at him it’s with a blank stare and a small shrug. He sighs, but comes to sit on the opposite end of her log.

“I’m surprised you’re here, then,” he says. She has dirt in the crown of her hair, a spot she’s missed.

“I’m more surprised that you are here,” she says, turning her gaze back to the fire. “But I guess no one wants to talk to you.”

“Yeah.”

“Serves you right, you were gonna let those Venatori kill us,” Kimani shrugs, and Bull realizes she’s chewing on something. “Like sacrifices to the dreadnought god.” Her voice deepens and shakes dramatically, lifting her hands to the sky. “Which would probably piss my gods off.”

Bull watches her chuckle to herself, and frowns. “You’re taking it freakishly well. Compared to earlier.”

“Please, I’m livid. But I’m clean and fed and hopped up on blood lotus so I can find a bit of laughter in my cousin’s betrayal. And all for a Qunari alliance. Ha! Shit’s thinner than piss and just as foul. If Mahvir succeeds in this war, she’s just going to have to deal with your people’s bullshit later down the line. You all know no true allegiance but to your own.  _Anaam esaam Qun_.” Her voice drops low, and she glances at him to see his reaction.

Bull isn’t sure if he should be offended. This time next week he might officially be on the opposing side of that phrase.

So, he just states the obvious. “You’re high.”

“As a Fereldan kite, big boy,” Kimani giggles into her hand. “Because you’re all mad and you’re all scum and I can’t believe I’ve joined this mess. Not the Chargers. The Chargers are good, but you broke them. You broke them and they’re good. I hope Mahvir comes to her senses and kicks you out; we can leave you here with your brethren and be done with qunari and The Qunari, spirits help us.” She pauses to swallow around the wad of what is definitely blood lotus in her teeth.

If the boss releases Bull from her service, he’s almost certain that he’ll have nowhere to go. He won’t have his order and he won’t have his Chargers. He’ll probably go mad and start killing kids like the-

Fuck, he can’t say it. Not yet.

“I’ve never seen a qunari look so sad.” Kimani squints at him before standing up and walking over to bend and squint closer in his face. Up close, Bull can see his hand prints on her perfectly, two bruises marring the smooth skin of her soft stomach.

“See that? But yours is worse.” She says, pressing a finger into the swell of his stomach, and he looks down at the splatter-shaped bruise. “And you deserve it. Unfortunate that I didn’t break a rib.”

“You could’ve. But your aim was off.” Bull looks back up at her. He can smell the lotus on her breath. She has come closer than she probably intends.

Kimani gives him a slow, inebriated blink. “It won’t be, next time.”

“Won’t be a next time,” Bull smiles mirthlessly, leaning back. “I think I’ve accidentally put myself on your team.”

Now it is Kimani’s turn to put space between them; she straightens up and step back. Against the campfire she looks like what Bull supposes a fire spirit from some story would look like, soft and sharp and ablaze with her element raging behind her.  Firelight does her many favors.

“What I know of the Qun is that it does not make room for accidents.”

Bull doesn’t like this mage. She makes too much sense under too many influences.

“No,” he says, looking down at his feet; he suddenly feels very small.  “I guess it doesn’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

On the way to the Storm Coast Kimani had watched Mahvir and her companions quietly, gauging who they all were together outside of Skyhold’s walls. How their characters held up. Along with the Chargers and Iron Bull, Mahvir had brought along two more mages; the Tevinter Dorian Pavus, and the other  _somniari_ , Solas.

Kimani likes Dorian, he is a boisterous man and very polite and speaks a few words of the Queen’s Rivaini. Solas is her arcane familiar but otherwise strange, though he keeps well away from the Inquisitor’s dreams. In fact, she has yet to cross his path in the Fade.

Altogether, this small slice of the Inquisition is cohesive; everyone understands their place and when it’s time to put in work, no one falters.  It is how a team should be, no matter how much or how little they might enjoy each other’s company. In particular, The Chargers have stolen her heart; they are warm and delinquent and tough. Kimani can forgive them a Ben-Hassrath leader because they themselves are good. They were kind to her from the moment she entered Skyhold and are less burdened by the plight of this Inquisition; it’s easier to be around them, even easier than being around Mahvir sometimes. Kimani has only been in the Inquisition a month, if she counts correctly, and it is not enough time to become accustom to the weight of their mission.

Only a month in, and look what has happened to her.

On the way back from the Storm Coast she keeps her mouth shut, or tries to. It’s bad enough she has to march back with her cousin.

“Kimani, please. It’s been three days. We must speak.” Mahvir appears at her side after they pitch camp for the night. She is small and sharp, her hair braided back. The shaved side of her head is overgrown, the designs that mimic her vallaslin lost in wild, new curls. Her many, studded earrings shine in the afternoon light, her long ears flicking nervously.

Kimani looks down at her beautiful cousin, and scowls. “Can’t. Still want to hit you.” She grunts like a caveman, her hands imperiously on her hips. Make herself big. Defense mechanisms.

She still wants to wring Mahvir’s scrawny neck, truth be told.

“Then hit me.  _Hit me_ ,” Mahvir exclaims, throwing her arms in frustration. Their companions turn to look but none of them understand Rivaini, only the sudden excitement in Mahvir’s voice. “Hit me as many times as you need so that I may speak to you again. Please, we need to talk. Don’t do this.”

Where they’ve pitched camp is green and open, the chill of coming autumn shaking the towering trees. Their tents are like a curve around the unlit campfire. Their mounts enjoy a bit of space and a lot of grass within the mages’ protective barriers; their magic thrums the air and puts Kimani on edge instead of at ease. Only give it more time, and it’ll be familiar enough to leave the hairs on the back of her neck alone.

Kimani cuts her eyes at Mahvir. “I haven’t  _done_  anythi-”

“Kimani Patris,” she snaps, using Kimani’s ancestral name as a warning. “We are grown women, don’t play this game.” She takes Kimani’s wrist in a claw-like grip and begins dragging her away, into the trees and damn her, Kimani is still running on Rivaini rules, still a bit frozen from Mahvir calling her by both names that she lets herself be dragged along.

Once they’re out of eyesight, thick bushes obscuring them from view, Kimani finds the sense to snatch her hand away. “You have some fucking nerve-”

“Like the void I do,” Mahvir retorts, glaring. “I have  _some_  nerve. I am leading a war, Kimani. A _war_ , not a skirmish for land or against another clan, a war. For  _Thedas_. I am trying to do what is right for all of us and I’m sorry…I am sorry that I…” her voice breaks and her glare softens, brown eyes going slick with the threat of tears.

“Do not cry.” Kimani paces in the tiny clearing, trying to burn off some of her anger. But spirits, it slicks her skin like slime. “You don’t get to cry about it. Not this. You did it and had I not seen what I’d seen, had I not had the strength? We’d be dead. You know this. And you were okay with it.”

If their family knew? Spirits. It’d be a disaster.

Mahvir knows. She squeezes her eyes shut, knuckling away tears as if she thinks the same thing. “I…I had to make a ch-”

Kimani is sometimes a base human being. Sometimes she is nothing but hunger, and lust, raw mana and rage, nothing but the aches of her body.

Her fist cracks against Mahvir’s cheek with little warning for either of them, and Mahvir cries out, stumbling back until she trips.

“You blighted bitch,” Kimani hisses, rubbing her knuckles and blinking away hot, angry tears. Her first tears of this whole ordeal. “How could you  _do_  that? How could you make _that_ choice?” She looks down at where her cousin has fallen without an ounce of guilt in her heart.

“ _Fuck_.” Mahvir’s face contorts as she rubs her jaw, smearing the blood dribbling from her mouth. “I’m sorry, Kimani. I’m sorry.”

“Are you certain?” She turns briefly towards a sound in the bushes, but no one appears. “Are you sure? Because I can keep going.”

“I think you’ve made your point, serah.” The Iron Bull appears on the path they’d taken into the trees, silent as death and looming like the same. Kimani squares her shoulders against his quiet, deliberate threat.

“Oh d’you think so, Iron Bull?” She dares him to move, jutting her chin at him.  “Have I hit it quite on the nose?”

“Bull!” Mahvir holds a trembling, halting hand out to him. “Bull, stand down. Do not interfere.”

Kimani looks the Bull over with a sneer, but Bull doesn’t seem interested in her anger, only tired and standing anyway. He raises his hands in surrender, takes a step back, but doesn’t leave.

Mahvir sniffs. “Patris, please. Kimani. Kimani, I need you. I need your help.” She rises to her feet, cupping her bruised cheek with one hand. “When this is over, I want to go home. With you; to Ostwick first, to the clan, and then Rivain. I want them to be proud of the both of us.  _I need you to be on my side._ I’ve been alone with this for so long.” 

“Now you need me?” Kimani asks, incredulous. “You didn’t think about that when I was moments away from death. When I stood for you and for this gods-damned Chantry on that beach. You didn’t think about that when you were content to let me die in the name of placating The Qunari. “

“No.” Mahvir lowers her eyes. “No, I didn’t. I have shamed myself and I have betrayed you. You have every gods-given right to leave, or worse. And now I ask the impossible when I have no right. But I’m asking anyway.” She comes close, gently takes Kimani’s hand with her gloved, marked one, and squeezes. And she knows Kimani too well, knows that she will squeeze her hand back. Knows that home and family and homecoming are things Kimani cherishes above most anything else, save magic.

Damn it. Kimani releases a breath she did not know she held. Mahvir’s mouth is still bleeding, a thick path splitting her lip.

“Ah, fuck me,” Kimani groans, running her hand over carelessly plaited braids. “Come here, girl. Come here.” She slips her hand beneath Mahvir’s on her face, and glowing with healing magic. “Damn elves and your thin bones.”

“Damn brawler’s blow,” Mahvir counters, licking her wound. “As if you sling brick instead of spells.” Her eyes close as the magic seeps into her.

“You shouldn’t have let me hit you.”

“Yeah I should have,” she laughs, hissing at the pain it causes. “That pain clears both ways.” She slips her arms around Kimani’s waist. “And had our places been changed I’d want a crack at you myself. Ooh,” she moves her jaw, wincing. “It still feels like you pulled it though, little cousin.”

“I would never have made that choice.” Kimani says, and Mahvir stiffens. But she doesn’t mean to punish her cousin anymore, only to make that one thing very clear. After a moment, she smiles. “I hit you with my left, is why it feels like I pulled it. My left swing is still shit.” She wipes the blood from Mahvir’s split lip and presses her thumb there. “It’s always funny, you calling me little cousin when I’ve got a good head on you.”

“And I’ve got three years on you. Rules are rules,  _ahatki_.” Mahvir relaxes a bit, and smiles back.

“Whatever.” Kimani bends so their foreheads touch. “Lucky bastard.”

“Says the lucky bastard.” That bit of banter is a favorite of theirs, and they both grin. “I’m sorry. I am glad for this.”

Kimani doesn’t know if Mahvir means methods of reconciliation, or that she survived the ordeal on the Coast to reconcile at all. Either way, she agrees.

“I’m not skilled simply for show. Sometimes I have to defend myself, you know. Didn’t expect it to be like this, but.”

“Kimani…I don’t know how better to apologize…”

“You can’t. That shit was heinous and you should be ashamed for the rest of your natural life. But we’re fine; we will be fine, in time. I’m not…going back home, or anything. You will do better, or else I’m actually going to beat your little ass until Elgar’nan himself stays my hand.”

Mahvir laughs, crying now. But this is alright. These tears she can have. Kimani sighs and pulls away from Mahvir’s face to judge her work; she is by no means a healer, but she gets by.

Her cousin touches her cheek gingerly, and shrugs. Then, she looks around Kimani to where Bull still stands. “See? It’s fine.”

Kimani looks over her shoulder and sees Bull watching them with a strange expression; he nods slowly, folding his arms.

“Glad to see it, boss. Serah,” Bull nods to them, and turns back towards camp. Just like that.

Mahvir watches him go, her smile fading. She nudges Kimani. “You can’t be cruel to him. He only followed my order.”

“I wonder if he’d have followed so willingly had you made another choice. He’s still Ben-Hassrath.” Kimani watches Bull disappear into camp, the wide plane of his back gleaming in the moonlight. It is hazy in her head, but she remembers their exchange that night by the campfire, her breath reeking of blood lotus. “I don’t want to like him.” And yet even now she considers him with more than disdain. A curiosity.

Mahvir shrugs. “You don’t have to like him. But do not be cruel to him, he’s dear to me. And he will have paid the most for this before it’s done.”

“Why do you say that?” Kimani raises a snowy brow, hooking her arm around Mahvir’s shoulder as they walk slowly back to camp. Fireflies blink in the dark, tumbling along cool night breezes; one lands on Kimani’s shoulder, content to join them until she flicks it away.

“I believe they are going to reject him. His people.”

“…Really?” She asks, shocked, but perhaps it’s not so outrageous with a sunken dreadnought and however many aboard it dead.

“He is acting strangely. Too quiet, too sad. I’ve never seen him sad. Not even when some of our soldier friends died at Adamant,” Mahvir says softly. “And I understand enough qunlat to know “tal-vashoth” even if Bull had never mentioned them. What?” She looks innocently at Kimani when she balks. “I didn’t acquire all of this stealth to not eavesdrop on my bodyguard and his qunari brethren after I royally fuck a deal. Creators, I’ve not completely lost myself.”

They break bush and are greeted with warmth and firelight; there are few people around the fire, nosy and wanting to see just how the Inquisitor and the hedge-witch (which is technically incorrect, but Kimani keeps quiet) emerge from the underbrush. Kimani meets their eyes, and many of them look away. She wonders if she truly seems so menacing, or if southerners are just cowards.

Iron Bull doesn’t lower his gaze. Firelight turns him into the kind of villainous spy she hears tell about in Rivain, those who come straight from Seheron with fog-warrior curses still tripping their tongues. It plays off of the sharp angles of his face, toying with shadows cast by his massive horns, glinting off of the metal eye patch he wears. Like one eye is engulfed in fire while the other can contain the flames in its gray-green depth.

But the fire does not belong to him; Kimani makes sure no one is quite too close to it before coaxing the flames to roar and lick up at an unattainable sky.

A few of the bystanders jump back, startled and unaware that they were always safe. Bull raises his eyebrow at her; she lifts her chin defiantly, and he breaks his gaze to watch the blaze reach.

Kimani swears she feels his gaze on her again as she slips into her tent.

…

The Inquisition runs into a bit of trouble on the way back, and Bull gets to kill a giant.

He stands at its head once it’s down, fully engulfed in the smell of sweat and blood and the sting of magic and charred flesh, breathing hard with his grimy maul on his shoulder. His muscles ache and his leg throbs and he probably needs to sit down, but he’s going to bask in this. Best thing that’s happened to him in  _days_ , and he finds solace in a giant’s corpse.

Morbid, yes. Badass,  _yes_. Bull tips his head back, begging the sky to burst and rain hard, wash everything away. More rain, he wants more. The clouds hold their own, however, fat and dark-gray, unwilling to open. Still, he hopes

Another cloud floats around him; Bull turns and sees Kimani skim the giant’s perimeter, just watching it with her hands clasped at the back of her neck, panting. She reeks of magic, her hair spattered in blood and hanging damp with sweat and grime and humidity. Her light armor is undone and fluttering in the pre-storm wind, pant legs rolled up her calves, out of shoes and socks. She walks barefoot in the grasp, clearly feeling safe in the open field now that the giant was down. Bull’s never felt that safe on a battlefield before or after the slaughter.

When Bull makes a strange noise to serve as comment to this effect she glances at him, and it prickles his skin. Her eyes are adrenaline bright, a sharp flush darkening copper cheeks and creeping down her long neck. She was a restless surge of energy in the assault, hitting hard enough to make him glad he’s only felt her blows once. A bit more strength than mages he usually sees.

He realizes he’s watching her and she’s watching him watch her; she pulls a face, and snorts.

“Still caught up in it, huh? The rush.” She presses a hand to her chest. “Mahvir thinks it’s some sort of condition.”

“I simply don’t get the same thing,” Mahvir shrugs, looking over their kill like an instructor over a student’s work. It’s true that the fight doesn’t excite her in the same way; she is clinical and light. She looks over the physician-like cuts of her attack and sees a good, dedicated attempt. It’s still a rush, the way she needs to look over and assess, but it doesn’t leave her flustered and frenzied. Bull thinks it’s hot, and he’s told her so, that precision. Sharp little boss.

“Don’t let her fool you; it’s the south that makes her stern,” Kimani huffs, shaking out her hair. With a few flicks of wrist and a leather tie, she pulls her heavy tresses back into a controllable cloud. Bull watches her wipe sweat from her neck, from the exposed stretch of her chest, shivering when a breeze blusters through.

“Nonsense, it is training and maturity, and-ah!” Mahvir cuts herself off with a shriek, gripping her marked hand as the Anchor’s glow spills through the seams of her glove. “Fuck!”

Everyone turns to her; everyone watches and sees that the pain is at its usual level, and everyone settles into the knowledge that they’re about to go close a rift. Bull and Krem share the quick, knowing glance they’ve developed over the last few months before they remember themselves. But it is a fleeting moment of normalcy that Bull lets linger over him. Back to that. He wants back to that. He misses his boys already.

“Mahvir?” Kimani comes close, hands hovering over the Anchor, face lost in worry. “What is it doing?”

Right; she hasn’t seen the Anchor in action yet and  _shit,_  is it scaring her, softening the sharp planes of her face.

“Trust me, it’s fine,” Mahvir hisses through gritted teeth. The Anchor crackles, snapping; another few seconds and she’d be past it, the sharp pains she’d described to Bull dulling to a thud until they found and closed the Fade rift. Bull has lost count of how many of the damn things they’d closed already. He thought that the Storm Coast was clear but then, they only thought they knew what they were doing with all of this mystery apocalypse shit.

Mahvir gently pulls herself out of Kimani’s grasp, getting the distance she needs when her hand acts up and walking away from them all. Bull had told her a bit of distance is good, to clear her head even when the pain is physical. Because there’s a surge of fear there, too, every time the Anchor reacts.

“Let’s get Solas and Dorian; Bull, Krem, Dalish, let’s go get this over with. Come on  _ahatki_ , bout time you see,” she calls behind her, not even bothering to look back because she’s the boss and they know the drill. Bull knows enough Rivaini, and Mahvir has said it enough that the endearment  _ahatki_  is familiar to his ears.

Sister. Sweet.

He turns to go after the other mages, and sees that Krem’s already halfway there. So, he comes up beside Kimani, who has not moved.

They aren’t friends. She tolerates him on Mahvir’s request and maybe he enjoys when the wide beam of her smile makes it to him, even accidentally for a second, but they aren’t friends and she doesn’t really like him. Still, Bull is pretty sure she isn’t going to torch him when he puts his hand on her shoulder.

She doesn’t relax, but she doesn’t move him.

“Hey,” he says, squeezing her reassuringly, “she’s fine. This has happened countless times, and you’re about to see what we’ve done countless times before. Gonna warn you, though; there’s gonna be a lot of demons.”

Kimani considers this with less uncertainty than Bull expects, even from a Rivaini mage. She looks at his hand, then looks up at him. “You protect her?”

“I do.” Bull nods. “We all do. No matter what.”

“You would have protected her from me, had she not stopped you?”

“…Yeah, serah,” he chuckles, shrugging. “As best I could.”

“As best you could,” she echoes. For a moment, she simply watches at him, regarding him from boots to the tips of his horns, and Bull feels stripped and judged. He doesn’t know what she’s thinking and it irritates him suddenly, the endless feeling of her sleepy gaze. Like she knows something about him that he hasn’t given; that’s how she looks at Solas, too. She smiles at Dorian, though. She smiles at the damn necromancer.

“Stop calling me serah,” Kimani says finally, brushing his hand from her shoulder. “And do not call me Trevelyan. The silly name is little more than a privilege pass owed me by a guilty father. My name is Kimani.”

“Kimani.” The name is easy on his tongue, a rumble of breath and soft stops. He likes it, though he doesn’t say.

“Exactly, Iron Bull.” Her skin warms, burnished copper and flush on her high cheeks, but he doesn’t think she realizes.

“I like it with the “The” in front, actually. The article works for me.” If he’s honest, he’s beyond correcting people at this point. But in his head he calls himself this still. If he keeps it, maybe he can pretend he is anything else but fucked.

“Iron Bull” is a name. “The Iron Bull” is a designation.

Kimani nods at this, turning to follow after Mahvir and the Chargers, who cast curious eyes their way as they pass with Dorian and Solas in tow. “Alright, The Iron Bull,” she says, as she leaves. “Fair enough.”

 

At the rift, Kimani a singular force. She looks at the demons that spill from the sky and grins with rift energy striking too close to her feet. She runs at them like a wrestler, low and grounded and base, her magic dancing over her own skin before she unleashes it on them. There’s something brutishly feral there; Bull almost gets hit because it catches him off guard, but he turns in time to see Krem’s maul rip through the terror demon’s skeletal chest. Krem’s eye are fighting bright and alert, his skin red with exertion. He glares at Bull for a moment, catching his breath, before they break away for the rest of fight. 

Bull thanks him quietly. Bull wonders why he didn’t just…

Overall it is fairly quick; Mahvir snaps the rift shut and keeps her feet afterward, which is always a good sign. She’s so small, never mind that she’s fucking ripped, that Bull knows the Anchor is just too much sometimes. But she’s a trooper.

He’s relieved for that and relieved that this rift is a fairly simple fix, considering some of the ones they’ve closed in the past. No one’s even hurt that bad, just a couple of scratches. So Bull feels relief. But between Kimani and Krem, and the way he finds himself watching them carry each other back to camp, arms over each other’s shoulders like old friends, he is set helplessly afloat in a sea of awe, fear, and needling, wheedling guilt.

The road back is already long as it is. He needs to get his head back on straight.


	3. Chapter 3

A letter doesn’t reach Bull as they ride back to Skyhold. Not a letter.

Mahvir decides about halfway home that they will spend a night in an inn and so Bull spends time in its tavern drinking watered down ale that tastes like sour water. He watches a woman demonstrate just how much she wants to fuck him by the way she watches him and runs her hands over her rosy bosom. Her hair falls in brunette ringlets that bounce with her tits when she laughs too hard at another patron’s joke. Bull doesn’t feel too bad in ignoring her advances because she’s a woman on a mission, playing the field.  _Somebody_ is going to scoop her up before the bards switch out for the final time tonight, it just isn’t going to be him. He doesn’t even have an urge, and it’s been a week.

Had it really taken so long to get to the Coast? He’s not horribly partial to Skyhold, but he’d like to be back in his shitty room by now. He has a project waiting for him in that hole in his ceiling and was able to get himself enough glass and a fairly skilled artisan to turn it into a covering. A skylight. He’ll like it a lot once it’s finished.

But he has to get there and first, it seems he has to sit through another painful encounter with Gatt.

“You coulda just traveled with us,” Bull mutters, watching the slinky elf slide into the seat across from him.

“With that witch that kicked your big ass? I don’t think so,” Gatt chuckles, sipping from his flagon. “I’ll make this quick.”

“Thank Koslun.” They both already know how this is going to end. But the Qun is all about formalities.

Gatt watches him a moment, sipping more ale. His hair is combed back and braided at the temples. Must have taken him forever to get that straight shit to hold.

“Will you reconsider killing your Lieutenant, as well as that Rivaini  _basra_?” He asks, never taking his eyes off of Bull.

“No.” Bull’s drums his fingers noisily on the tabletop, expelling nervous energy. He doesn’t care that Gatt sees.

“Do you consent to coming under my custody and the custody of my men, so that we can escort you back to Qunandar for re-education?”

Bull’s heart hammers in his chest, but his voice is calm. His mind races,  _shit shit shit_. He could do that again, couldn’t he? Endure that pain, that forgetting, hollowing, stripping?

He remembers telling himself that the pain was good. Healing. But he can’t bring himself to think so now.

“No.”

Gatt clenches his jaw. “Then you are declared Tal-Vashoth. By midday tomorrow, you will be officially denoted as such by our superiors in Ferelden. By the end of the week, your records in Par Vollen will be dealt with.” He doesn’t sound sad, simply disappointed. He also sounds resigned to it, the loss of a brother in both sense, north and south.

“And when should I expect assassins?” Bull smirks to deflect. Gatt only shrugs.

“Even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you, Tal-Vashoth.” He says something else, lower and in qunlat, and Bull raises his eyebrow.

“Your accent is getting better.” He stands from the table, grateful that his feet move when he tells them to. They’re done here. “You’ll sound like a proper qunari before the end.”

Bull turns his back on Gatt and finds it funny, in a shitty way, that a viddathari is the last thing he’ll see of his people until they try to kill him. He’s a madman now, after all.

He walks away, because Gatt will find more than a few things to say to him, to hurt him, if he doesn’t. He remembers how they used to spend downtime making up new shit to sling at Tal-Vashoth before they killed them. Burning insults that hurt  _him_  even though he was nowhere near Tal-Vashoth in the jungles of Seheron. Not in those early years. Not in those glory days.

“The fuck was that?”

Bull nearly walks into Krem, and his heart skips. The kid looks ruddy, a drink or two in, and deliberately blocking Bull’s way. Krem beckons behind Bull; when he turns, the table that he and Gatt shared is empty.

“I just watched that same qunari agent from the coasts leave that table. I watched you and him speak. The  _fuck_  was that about?”

Krem isn’t drunk, but the pink in his cheeks burns red, suddenly. He glares up at Bull and waits for a reply. Bull stalls a moment to look beyond him at the table that the Chargers had inhabited earlier in the night. Now, only Dalish and Skinner remain, and they watch intently.

Bull shrugs. “Gatt was just informing me of my new position.” He watches Krem narrow his eyes.

“Yeah, and what’s that?”

 _A mess and a dash of madness, I’m fucked._ “I’ve told you about Tal-Vashoth. Now I get to be one.”

“ _Well_.” Krem makes a face that says he’s not surprised. “Guess that’s what happens. Save the wrong lives, get the boot. But you didn’t even save the wrong lives. You just fucked up.”

“Listen, Krem-”

“Look. I’ve tried talking to the Inquisitor about changing up the contract she has on us. Separating it out, but she won’t hear it. Naturally. This is a good job, Bull. I’ll deal with you if I have to, but you’re not my chief.”

It hurts, but Bull thinks it progress that Krem speaks to the Boss at all. He can only imagine the shit he’d given her when she tried to apologize. And Mahvir had definitely tried to apologize.

Shit, Bull will, too. “I’m sorry, Krem. Sorry she didn’t change the contracts. Sorry you feel that she has to.”

His lieutenant is young. 25, 26. Not a kid, but the way pain softens his face is childlike.

“You weren’t even going to give us a choice,” he says softly. “All the time we’ve worked together, and you take away our autonomy at that moment. You know, it was quick but I bet if we’d had a heads-up we could have pulled a strategy out of our ass and at least cut them down until you all made it to us. But they were right on us by the time she saw them. Couldn’t do shit about it then but run or die fighting. She really is the only reason we’re here.”

She. Bull had watched her take a man with her to bed about an hour ago. Probably a stonemason, as there was a quarry around here. She, who had replaced Bull in Krem’s eyes as a savior. She, who would not carry the mantle as he did, which is something he has to respect.

“You chose to serve under a qun-loyal agent,” Bull says honestly, reaching to rub his opposite shoulder. “Which means your autonomy was never actually there. You chose when you chose to stay with me. That’s the truth of it, Krem.”

He watches the way anger pulls Krem’s face this way and that. Uncertain; his emotions have strong arms and weak knees. “

I didn’t lie to you, not once,” Bull continues. “And I’m not lying to you now when I say that if I had a chance to go back and make this right, I would.”

“You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t be here if you had a choice.”

Bull scoffs. “We’re both here because I had a choice.”

“Bullshit.”

“Funny. They wanted me to kill you and the Trevelyan woman as payment for the dreadnought. If you notice, the both of you are still alive.  _She_  is probably very alive right about now.” Bull juts his thumb at the ceiling, upstairs.

Krem scowls, but Bull can tell that he believes him. It doesn’t seem to help much.

“So you’re staying.”

“Looks like it. And I want to make it right, Krem. I don’t fucking know how, but I want to.”

They’re in the middle of a tavern, both with drinks in their hands and weapons at their hips. The tavern watches them, some head-on and some out of peripherals, and waits. Big qunari and an angry man in nice armor. Maybe a vint, maybe got the armor off of a vint he killed. They’re a bit of a spectacle.

Krem deflates a little, but Bull isn’t hopeful.

“You’re a piece of shit.”

“Yeah.”

More staring. More scowling. Bull might not be hopeful, but he is patient.

Krem knows this. “Fuck this. I’m going to bed,” he says finally, lumbering towards the upper level of the tavern with little more than wave of his hand.

Bull watches him go with a sigh, thinking about how easy it is to fall into your own cracks. It’s easy, dark and cool and away from all of the decision-making. Bull’s going to have nothing but decision-making to do, now.

An older man stops Krem in his tracks.

“Oi, that brown wench was with you, yeah? With all the…” he waves his dirty hands around his head to denote Kimani’s hair. Krem nods. “Well, she’s out there fightin’. Fightin’ ox-men.” The old man glances at Bull.

Krem turns back to him too and gives him the foulest look, accusation written all over it.

Fuck. Either Kimani is fighting vashoth or she’s fighting whoever Gatt had brought with him to follow Bull until they made their move. With his luck it is most certainly the latter, even though he hadn’t seen her come back downstairs.

“We gotta go get her. The Boss will skin us both,” Bull huffs, brushing past both men and stepping outside. The tavern doesn’t need to know how a surge of nervous energy has just hit him in the gut, or how he walks fast because more than one qunari Ben-Hassrath against only one human mage was not a fight, but a slaughter.

Outside the night is dry, the crickets loud, the moon like a bright, open mouth in the clear, dark sky.

Bull doesn’t get very far down the narrow street before he hears qunlat and angry Rivaini to his left, hears Krem’s footsteps behind him, and unhooks the ax at his waist. Krem unsheathes his sword as they round a corner into a dimly-lit alley. A rat scurries over Bull’s foot. Three qunari loom around Kimani, who stares one down with enough arrogance to warrant her noble last name. Her back is to a wall; there might as well be claws where she has blunt fingernails.

She doesn’t have a chance despite it all.

“We’re not here for you,  _basra_ , but we can be,” the one says coolly, eyes flitting up to where Bull and Krem stand. He bares his teeth, and Bull sees sharp, deliberate and darkened points that bring back memories. “Anyway, we’ve found him.”

Kimani’s eyes dart his way. Relief quirks her brow, and only then does Bull know how fear could look on her.

Bull scoffs at the agents. “Three big ones, huh? So you mean business.” He bobs his weapon playfully as he sizes up each man. “And all qunari-blooded. You  _really_  mean business. I’d have been fucked with just this little ax.”

“Not here to talk, Tal-Vashoth.”

“Oh, I know. Here to consign my soul to dust, blah blah. Well, let’s get on with it.” Bull remembers too well killing Tal-Vashoth, how it reaffirmed his faith in himself and his Qun. These ones are gonna want to chant the good verses after they’re done with him, but they won’t get the chance.

Moonlight turns everyone ghostly, starlight not so strong that it can reach down to touch them. The cobblestone beneath Bull’s feet feels strangely even, but he knows better. Needs to watch the way these streets dip and rise. The shops around them are as dark as the night, and quiet.

He  _might_  have been fucked against three of these guys if tonight had gone any other way.

But as it is, one of them is already dead.

Kimani doesn’t really…move, but she  _does_. Bull still sees her standing where she stood, and yet he also sees her ram into the qunari farthest from them on her left side, the blur of her a connection between the image and the woman, and run him through with a long knife that glints dully in his eye before it’s buried in the agent’s stomach. And then his chest, in between the  _vitaar_ , over and over. Stab, stab, stab.

There’s a second where everyone is frozen, where everyone else watches the mage brutally kill the qunari, before shit breaks loose.  The biggest one runs at Bull like a damned bull himself, shouting  _anaam esaam qun_  and striking for Bull’s neck like he wants to lop his head off. Bull ducks it, hacks at the agent’s side with his axe once, twice in quick succession before he has to dodge another swing. It is slower this time, the agent’s hand twitchy on the hilt and slick with blood, the confidence in his voice eaten by pain as he repeats himself.  _Anaam esaam qun_.

So Bull runs at  _him_ , mindful of the sword so he can knock it loose and catch it easy. Quick, Bull steps into the agent, shocked by the impact, and turns once for momentum so he can run him through to the hilt. Clean and bloody.

Death is a rush on both ends; Bull can feel his blood rushing in his ears and he can see the life rushing from the agent’s eyes, the shock seeping from his face to leave it soft and empty. One gurgling cough that gets blood and spit on Bull’s face.

Kimani screams suddenly, painful and shrill, but there’s no time for freezing now; Bull takes back the sword, kicking the body away, and turns to the last one.

Krem is keeping up like he damn well better, meeting the agent strike for strike, but he’s still not quick enough to trip up a Ben-Hassrath. Kimani is collapsed against the wall of a dark building behind them, curled into herself, and Bull knows. The poison, they got her with  _qamek_.

Shit.

“Maneuver three, Krem!” Bull bellows, and watches Krem mouth the command before falling into the step, crossing behind one foot and bringing the agent’s weapon down low. Fight low, so he thinks to defend low.

The agent is trying to pay attention to them both, but he still thinks he’s winning because he thinks he killed Kimani.

The Charger motion for down is very simple; you make the horns, and you turn them downward. But it has to be fast because the signaled Charger can’t spend too much time looking at you, and there can’t be too much time in between their ducking and you doing whatever the hell you’re going to do.

Bull swings that well-made, beautiful qunari sword, and lops the last agent’s head off as the poor fuck is turning. The shit flies like a damn  _bird_ , the freed neck fountains blood, and Bull has to keep moving; he rushes over to Kimani, one hand deep in his pants pocket to fish out a vial of antidote. He’d brought a few doses with him for the Storm Coast, in case someone got hit, and keeps it on him by force of habit; It is long-known by his people that the Venatori adopted the poison, most likely off of a captured qunari, and began manufacturing it as best they could. Theirs was weaker, but still could kill qunari in large doses.

Kimani is hit with that good stuff; even as she has a furiously glowing hand pressed over the wound, a cut across her chest, she fights against a foaming mouth.

“Alright, come on,” Bull hunkers down on one knee, grabbing her by the chin when she shrinks away from him. Pain and fear contort her face, darkened with unruly red. “Open up or you’re gonna die in an alley. You don’t want that, neither do I. Not a good death.”

Kimani blinks away tears and opens her mouth, letting loose drool and foam but no blood. That’s good; Bull makes her spit, tipping her head back and emptying the vial into her mouth, then closing it and coaxing her to swallow. She chokes a little, hitting her fists on Bull’s chest, but he doesn’t let go until she’s done it all.

Krem comes close, gauntleted hand on her knee as she groans, eyes shut tight as the antidote burns the poison away. She beats against Bull through the worst of it, her other hand a claw on his shoulder.

“You’re alright,” Bull says calmly, setting his teeth against the dig of her nails. “It’s almost over.” He takes the edge of the scarf she wears and wipes her forehead, then her mouth. “It’s just pain, it’s good pain. It’s healing pain.”

She stares at him, her glare softening into something truly frightened when the antidote turns her cold, then finally into something tired and wet with tears when she feels her warmth again.

Yeah. The chill is scary, especially if you’ve known near-death before.

“There you go. You made it.”

“What was that? What  _was_  that?” Kimani’s voice is hoarse and she slumps forward. “What was that?”

Krem reaches for her and winces in pain; Bull shakes his head.

“I got her. I can get you too, if you need it.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but Krem just stands up.

“I think I can manage.” He moves his left arm, and grimaces. They’re gonna have to wake Stitches up. He’s not going to like that.

And the Boss is going to be so pissed. Shit, she’s gonna be mad.

Kimani doesn’t protest to being carried. She shakes like a leaf in his arms, one hand curled around the strap of his harness. When they return to the tavern, the old man that alerted them stands near the door; He’s a little confused about the “brown wench” being in the arms of an “ox-man,” but he nods gruffly at her apparent safety, and shuffles away. The rest of the tavern has wound down in the time they’ve been gone. The hunting woman is missing, must have found someone suitable, good for her. The last bard of the night is lively, so they haven’t been on long. The innkeeper tends his bar and he seems serene, so there hasn’t been any trouble.

It hasn’t been very long since they’ve left, but now there are three more, massive corpses in this town than there were before. Mahvir wants them to leave very early in the morning, and so they should be out of her before anyone is bothered to report dead qunari to the authorities. No one was going out there in the dark for damn sure.

Bull turns to Krem, and his wounds seem to multiply in the light. Always that damn shoulder.

“You need to get Stitches. She needs to eat; I’ll take care of it.”  _It’s my fault, anyway_ , he thinks with a pang of guilt.  _Again._

Krem ignores him and looks over Kimani, worried. Bull knows that look, had been the subject of it before, of Krem eager to devote himself. And she is a lot prettier than Bull, even before he’d lost the eye. Easier deity.

“Go get that looked at, Krem.” Kimani lifts her head, and Krem relaxes, nodding. Seemingly smiling back; Bull can’t see her face for all the hair. “He didn’t kill two qunari to turn around and hurt me.”

Bull stiffens. That’s what Krem’s thinking. Even after Bull telling him he’s Tal Vashoth. After what just happened.

“Krem-” Bull starts, but Kimani thumps him hard in the chest. She shouldn’t have the energy, but it shuts him up.

“If you bleed out in this tavern I’m going to kick your ass,” she adds softly, laughing when he nods begrudgingly. “I’m okay and I told you, I’m not the light.”

“I know,” Krem says, conceding. “But you are my friend.”

“I’m good with that. Go get stitched up.”

With a final look between her and Bull, Krem sighs and goes. Waking Stitches was going to be another, small battle.

Bull chooses a booth and slides Kimani into the long seat; as he suspects, she slumps into it, a relieved sigh pulling her near to laying across the bench. Bull sits across from her, orders the stew because her throat’s a scratched-up mess and there’s probably nothing else ready this late, and whiskey for himself until she croaks “two whiskeys” and proceeds to hack up a lung.

Bull shrugs at the maid. “Two whiskeys.”

“It’s half water anyway,” Kimani says after the maid leaves. She rights herself, leaning heavily on the table. Her hands are stained with blood and dirt. “And southerners don’t know how to drink.” She smooths her hair back, heedless of the filth, tying it with a piece of twine. Bull wonders how many of those twines she just has hanging out on her person, waiting to tame that mass of white cloud: dingy white now actually, spattered with dirt, but still. Still a cloud, as close as he’ll ever get.

She raises bloodshot eyes to him without warning. He’s of the opinion there needs to be a warning before someone with eyes that  _demand_  so much decide they’re gonna fix on you.

“This is the second time I’m fucked up because of you.”

Bull doesn’t think he’s supposed to speak; the silence hollows between them, and Bull imagines a cave, dark and vast, before she speaks again.

“But we won’t count it, since you killed most of them and saved me from dying in an alley. That was very motivating, by the way.  And whatever was in that vial was foul.”

“I’ve never known a sweet antidote,” Bull says.  Always bitter; living, the modes of living, choosing how to live? It all is bitter. Bull tastes copper on his tongue.

“Fair enough.” Kimani wipes the corner of her mouth with her cleaner wrist; there’s nothing there. Her lips are cracked, and she licks them, dragging her teeth over the bottom and wincing at the pain she knew was coming. “A qunari attacking another qunari, yelling ‘victory in the Qun,’ must mean that one of them is truly not a qunari.”

The stew comes then, as well as the whiskey; both of them sit back as the maids arrange everything in front of them. Their bowls steam; Kimani sniffs at hers, and shrugs. She flicks a nail at her whiskey mug.

“You’re right,” Bull says belatedly.

“I know.” The way she says it seems like that’s the end of that particular conversation. Works for Bull; he doesn’t really have any words beyond that, anyway. Skin’s still too new, tongue still learning and un-learning.

“How’d that mess start?” Bull knocks back his whiskey and she takes a big gulp of hers. No one coughs. It really is weak shit.

“One of ‘em called me a…said I belonged with a muzzle and in chains, and I bit the bait,” Kimani says after she spoons some stew in her mouth. Bull follows suit. Eh, it’s nothing special. At least it’s hot.

“You thought you could take on  _three_  of them?”

“I wasn’t thinking. I was just minding my business, taking a walk after…well, I was walking and this big bastard says I belong in chains. So I mouth off. They buck up, I buck up. A little back and forth, then you and Krem show up. One of them, the one you beheaded, cut me with a blade, a little poisonous blade. And then everything went hot.”

“It’s called  _qamek_.”

Kimani narrows her eyes. “I thought that was only for…I have known Tal-Vashoth, and they told me…”

“It was for me, but you pissed him off.”

“And you just…keep the antidote on you?”

Bull shrugs. “I keep a lot of things on me, don’t worry about it.”

“No, I suppose I don’t have to.” She lifts her bowl to her lips, and drinks. “Mahvir supposed they would reject you.”

Blow to the chest. “The boss is keen.”

Kimani considers this, then takes another spoonful of stew. She rubs at her throat, and Bull sees a bruise he hadn’t noticed before, watches it roll as she swallows. She eyes her whiskey mug and decides against another swig.

Bull pulls out his flask. “This’ll give it a kick, if that’s what you want.”

To his surprise, she snorts. “Brought that all the way from Par Vollen?”

“I make it myself."

“You don’t,” she shoots back, reaching out for the flask. Bull smirks, and hands it over. “Do you really?”

She unscrews the top, and instead of pouring some into her bottle, takes a shot of it from the flask. Bull sits back, smirk spreading into a smile. “Vashoth, children of Tal-Vashoth, make it in Rivain. Theirs is sweeter. Our Dalish also make their own brew. More cinnamon and cloves, like our tea. This,” she grimaces, but takes another, smaller sip, “tastes like metal and…nutmeg?”

Bull shrugs, amused. “Gotta make do with what you got. Nah,” He waves her off when she tries to hand the flask back. “Keep it. I’ve got another.”

“Oh…thank you.” She takes another sip and closes it up, sets it in her lap. Warmth is back in her cheeks, from soup or alcohol, or both. Bull eats more of his stew before it goes cold.

The bard sings something soft, now. Something easy, to lull the tavern to sleep. It’s a good tactic, and the bard has a good voice; they rock with their song, hips swaying like their own lullaby. Kimani and Bull are two of only a few lingering occupants, all winding down themselves. And the bard, they sing and sing; a fairy-tale tune, about love and gods. Andraste, and a happy ending. Bull doesn’t know if that’s sacrilegious or if it even matters, but he likes it. He’s always liked southern legends, and legends in general. Even under the Qun, they had them and even under the Qun, they sometimes grew wings.

 _I can keep those_ , Bull thinks. _Keep those and keep language. Keep memories_. Seheron he keeps on his body, always.

He thinks about the dead qunari in the alley. How one of them was definitely a veteran of that wretched island. Teeth sharpened to fangs, dyed with ink. Scare tactic for people who believe in too many things. Bull rubs his tongue against his own two, man-made fangs. The ink’s long been gone, and the teeth used to be longer, but he keeps those, too.

“If you want Krem’s forgiveness, you have to stop trying to apologize,” Kimani says after a while of watching him.

“I know my lieutenant,” Bull says too quickly and he shows himself; Kimani raises her eyebrows.

“Of course you do. Silly of me.”

There’s no heat in the words, though they are sly and cut deep. Bull sees a new weariness wash over her, and knows her bit of energy is waning. Time for a long, fitful sleep.

For both of them.

Bull pushes his bowl away. “Take another shot of the  _maraas-lok_. It’ll help you sleep easy.”

She laughs hoarsely, reopening the flask. “ _Maraas-lok_  will not help me sleep easy.” She knocks one back, then offers the flask. “It’s polite.”

Bull tips his empty mug to her and she pours more than a shot. They drink together. Afterward, she gives a very affirming nod like they’ve signed a pact, and Bull can’t help but feel the same way.

“Now, if you don’t mind. I need a little help.”

Bull carries her up to her room, deposits her in a chair next to an empty, still-damp basin and a half-filled bucket of water. Bull keeps two buckets, surprisingly never uses them all, so he offers her some of his; she can’t possibly clean all that hair  _and_  her body with what’s left in hers, but she declines sternly enough that he doesn’t offer again before he leaves. He hears her whimper quietly as she pulls off her boots, when she thinks he’s far enough away not to hear her, and Bull closes the door firmly behind him.

In his own room he wipes off quickly, resigned to cleaning himself better in the morning when he can bother with fire. He lay naked atop his sheets, arms folded over his chest, looking up at the black stretch of ceiling. Only then does he feel the ache in his chest expand like a bubble. Like a painful fucking bubble, swallowing up his lungs, his ribs, spilling down into his stomach. He feels distended even though he isn’t. He feels bloated. He lets his mouth fall open to give the pain an out it will not take.

_It’s done. It’s real._

He lay like that, breathing slowly through his mouth to keep tears at bay, until he falls asleep.

…

 

There is something very comforting about The Iron Bull that doesn’t make sense to Kimani. Mahvir might say that it’s because she doesn’t want it to make sense, wants to cling to the idea of the Bull that she has, and perhaps that is true. Kimani only knows one way to be sure of such things.

Kimani cleans herself and rubs mint paste on her chest, hissing at the sting all the while and wondering after her future scar. She doesn’t bother with clothes, hobbling to bed. Not two hours before, she’d been enjoying herself well enough in bed with a broad-backed man who asked before wrapping a lock of her hair around his finger, who was enthusiastic to get ridden, and amiable enough to leave right after. She’d felt refreshed and thought a walk could on improve on her improved mood. Now, her body is broken and weak and aching everywhere. Breathing hurts, but the cooling mint makes each breath easier.  _Maraas-lok_  warms her full belly. The  _qamek_  antidote leaves a taste like bile on her tongue, even after her late, second dinner.

The south has already proven to be a headache as well as infuriating and painful, and too damned cold. And he has already been on the brink of death twice.

 _Mahvir,_ she thinks, _you will owe me a kingdom once I’ve gotten you through this ordeal. A large kingdom, and an orchard of muskmelon. And a new bone pipe from Seere._

When she sleeps, she decides to walk the Fade though she does not need to soothe Mahvir tonight. It is part of her self-imposed job to keep her cousin from demons, to lay easy paths for her rest. She has trained nearly her entire life to control and perfect the gift of her dream-walking, of being _somniari_. That she is a powerful Dreamer is one of the few prides of her life; she finds solace in the art as much as she wields it for her own safety. Even in Rivain, where magic was not see as a blight, somniari were at risk of being consumed by demons and become dream-stalkers, little better than demons themselves as they terrorize the dreams of innocents. Every day, and every walk in the Fade, is a testament to her perseverance.

She’s damned good at who she is and tonight, Kimani peels through layers of Fade and consciousness until she finds where The Iron Bull dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

Everyone gives to the Fade, even if they do not know it. Not just dreams but consciousness and precious memory, residues of fear and hope and anger. Perhaps if it was just dreams, playing out behind invisible barriers, there would be more living  _somniari_  in the south; it’d be much easier for Circle mages, poor things, to keep away from the teeth beneath the Fade’s veneer.

Kimani isn’t certain. She only know what she’s been taught and what compels her every time she chooses to walk the Fade.

Tonight he compels her, and his dreams taste like sweat. Salt.

Kimani has stepped into more than a few qunari heads; diplomats and Ben-Hassrath around Afsaana might not know her personally, but she has seen some of their quietest thoughts. Others, too: humans and elves. Dwarves are a different story that she does not know how to tell. But she can read a qunari like a book, easy.

Rain! His dreams taste like rain and the way water tastes sipped from leaves. He dreams of jungles and Seheron; this place she is in now, thick underbrush and swamp-rotted wood and fog, can be nothing other than Seheron. She has heard stories of a place reduced to war and fog, thick with the strange plants of the far north, where vints and fog-warriors and qunari killed each other all day and fouled the water with their conquests.

Lots of fighting in these dreams, then. Blood. But that’s not what he  _tastes_  of. Not violence but exertion, exhaustion. Kimani feels tired simply being in his dream space. There is so much on his mind, it’s a wonder if he ever remembers dreaming at all. Too many ghosts haunt him at once, in communion. She walks through his war zone with light steps and sharp eyes.

 Dreams overlap and cross each other in strange places; a somniari walks through everything at once, choosing at will where to linger. The sleeper doesn’t have so much choice; they fall and land and must deal with whatever they get.

Kimani finds that the Iron Bull dreams a lot about the Fade, which is odd until Kimani remembers Mahvir telling her about the battle at Adamant Fortress. It is something she would have both loved and loathed to see, the Raw Fade; on one hand, it’s the Raw Fade. On the other? It’s the Raw  _fucking_  Fade and no living thing should know how other realm feels on their skin. Not like that.

“A qunari in the Fade,” Kimani muses, rubbing her chin. “That must have scared you shitless. Poor bastard.”

 _But Tama, if it gets in my head, how do I get it out?_ A child’s voice cries in qunlat, and Kimani knows enough of the language to follow. The voice is disembodied; it seems to be the underlying chant to Bull’s memory-nightmares of Adamant.

Definitely not a good experience for him.

It also means he probably thinks that someone like her is a demon. Which, outside of places like Rivain, is understandable if ignorant. The way the Chantry abuses mages is unspeakable; they do not understand that suppression of magic is not a solution, but a slow death.

Shit, maybe they do. Maybe they just don’t care.

Kimani expects to immediately see the Storm Coast in Iron Bull’s dreams; it is all that Krem has dreamt about since the incident, but Kimani cannot find those memories in the Bull as easily as she’d hoped. She passes through the things he unwittingly leaves in the Fade like mist, arms crossed tightly to fight the urge to tinker with him. She’s just here to look and she can’t touch. She mustn’t touch. She won’t trespass to that degree.

But she can’t find what she’s looking for, and wants to delve deeper; for her this is as simple as descending a stair, and as difficult as keeping away from food when one starves. Unconsciously, she licks her lips. Unsurprisingly, her stomach growls.

In Rivain, Kimani’s mentors are hesitant to confirm her as a Seer. They say she is powerful in her dreaming and her skill is apparent, but she relents to her base instincts with little control. They say that this wouldn’t bode well for a Seer. The relationships are too delicate; the woman must be as strong as the spirit that chooses her, and not an inkling less. Not an inkling  _more_. And her hunger, they fear, could bleed into the spirit like an infection.

And that is how abominations are made.

But here in dreams, she’s nigh unstoppable. She keeps her eye out for pride demons.

“I don’t understand you,” Kimani murmurs as she parts the layers of Bull’s offered consciousness. “I don’t understand you, but they love you. Mahvir loves you. The people you were willing to sacrifice love you.”

He keeps more childhood memories at the forefront of his mind than most, and he was a kind child. The name “Ashkaari” brings with it a warmth that his other names do not. Kimani leaves most of these alone; she’s not a complete savage.

And then, she finds what she wants. More accurately, she stumbles into it.

They’re on the Storm Coast and Iron Bull has his hands around Krem’s throat. Krem is dressed in his usual armor, but Bull looks like a true qunari warrior,  _vitaar_  red and vibrant when lightning brightens the sky. It’s raining a lot harder than it was when they were there, but that’s normal. Everything is always more dramatic in dreams.

For example; Kimani is there as well and her dream-self seems to be dead, sprawled in an uncomfortable-looking position at Bull’s feet. Her hair covers her face for which she is grateful, but it is undoubtedly her.

In the undercurrent of the dream, same as how she heard the child Ashkaari in the undertow of Adamant, she hears that elven qunari’s voice: _Kill your second, kill the witch. That might help your case._

And then, Bull’s voice: _Not even to save my ass._

But now, he squeezes the life out of Krem as the poor man claws at Bull’s arms.

Kimani draws closer as Bull drops Krem’s limp body to the ground and he stands there, staring between the two corpses. His chest heaves; she realizes he has hair in this dream and a lot of it. It plasters over his shoulders and chest, heavy with rain.

Kimani watches him watch the dead bodies. When he takes a panicked step back, she looks down too.

Krem moves his leg: barely, but enough. And, Kimani can see her dream-self’s own chest rise with a struggling, desperate breath as if she’s resurfacing from a long, deep dive.

Not dead. They should be dead, it shouldn’t be hard for a man as big as Bull to crush two human necks, but they aren’t quite there.

Another voice in the undercurrent:  _From what I know of the Qun, it does not make room for accidents._

“Oh,” Kimani blurts, startled. She takes a small step back. “That’s me. I said that.”

A crack of sudden thunder slows to a rippling, moseying  _boom_ that echoes instead of clapping its fury. The rain slows, the sound warps.

This is the sound of a  _somniari_  fucking up a little. She doesn’t often hear her own voice echoed back to her in someone else’s dreams. She wasn’t expecting it; it shakes her hard enough that it affects the dream. _She_ affects the dreams.

Kimani looks up and sees this dream-Bull staring dead at her. With two eyes. She moves over to the side, and he tracks her. She moves to the other side and still, he follows.

He sees her.

“Fuck,” she mutters, holding up her hands. He can’t do anything to her, but he can make it difficult for both of them if his fear overtakes the dreams. It’s in her best interest to end this quickly, and to seem as harmless as possible though the opposite is true. “I…am very sorry.”

She begins pulling at the threads of Bull’s dream, and they really are like threads in a blanket, exposed in places where the dream-and the dreamer’s will- are thin. For Bull, it is right where they stand. She reaches out, and like grabbing onto kite string she catches and pulls on the ethereal threads, the foundations of his conscience and his space in the Fade. She’s going to have to wake him up. It’ll be too much for him, with the way he’s looking at her now like he’s been besieged with ghosts, to regulate himself if she leaves him sleeping. Because of this, she doesn’t pull the strings so much as yank them.

 It is going to hurt him, but it’s better than the alternative.

“Sorry about the splitting headache,” she says in a soft, singsong voice as she rapidly unravels his dreams. For a moment it looks like he’s going to speak, standing amid the not-quite-dead bodies, but then he disappears; he’s awake. The dreams will follow soon after, turning into mist in the Fade, nothing but shifting colors without the dreamer to hold them together.

Waking herself up is much simpler.  Just a bit of focused thought, and-

She’d fallen asleep in a funny position: On her back, her head falling off the edge of the bed, her pile of pillows, bolstered by her traveling pack, abandoned. Groaning, Kimani shimmies her way back to them, reaching for her headscarf and re-ties it over her head. Her temple throbs painfully, an after-effect of her own, but it’s nothing like what that poor bastard is dealing with down the hall.

Shivering a little, she flicks her wrist at the brazier and pulls her thin blanket around her shoulders. Warmth billows into the cold room; the walls seem greedy for it. Kimani certainly is. She coaxes the flames hotter, and thinks about the Iron Bull.

Well, his dreams. She thinks about his dreams; if she had any doubt of his authenticity, she thinks she now might be able to afford him a little more faith. True faith. Qunari do not send assassins as warnings, but conclusions. And they certainly do not seen three qunari-blooded this far south for anything less than that. His dreams reinforce this; there is conclusion in his heart. It won’t even let him dream otherwise, no matter how much he might want to believe anything else.

No matter how many times he dreams the dream, the bodies will always move.

 _Perhaps it is enough. It is more than enough for Mahvir._   Admittedly it is hard for Kimani to trust her cousin’s judgment so soon after that folly on the coast. In her heart, she knows that Mahvir truly thought she was doing what was best. Kimani can swear up and down that she wouldn’t sacrifice her kin if they had traded places; she can, from her current vantage point predict in full surety that she would not bend so severely for a qunari alliance. She wouldn’t even have taken the bait.

But she isn’t the one with the mark on her hand. She doesn’t carry that weight every day. She hasn’t gone through what her cousin has gone through and so, though it pains her, she cannot judge. She can only trust her- The Inquisitor- going forward. That’s all she can do.

Kimani runs her finger along her poisoned wound; it is still tender, stitched together with magic but left enough alone so that her body can heal at its own pace. The antidote Iron Bull had given her was swift and harsh; her throat is still raw, not helped by the  _maraas-lok_ she drank, and the wound throbs, still tender to the touch. But she isn’t dead, which is most important. She breathes deep and the mint paste drags cool air into her lungs; in the night it has smeared over her wound and her breasts, and she smells sharp. It is a comfort.

“Three qunari,” she laughs to herself, pulling her knees to her chest. “I could have taken them.”

She could have taken two, easy, but she’s not at full strength and hasn’t been since the Coasts. Travel is wearing on her and now, the residual evil of this  _qamek_  poison will add to the burden. Kimani know she should not have walked in dreams, should’ve just taken her  _nesomni_ , the herbs that block her dreaming magic, and slept soundly. But she is ever-curious.

The Iron Bull had been a strange qunari even when he was still truly a qunari. He is simply a strange man.

Kimani scoots over to the nightstand and takes the flask he gave her. The leather case is good, designed with same patterns that decorate his harness, and smells like him. How he smelled carrying her. Sweat and just his skin, she supposes. Earthy, a bit sharp. It’s nice.

She takes a small drink of the remaining alcohol and nearly chokes on it when someone knocks on her door. Heavy, deliberate, slow. She doesn’t move, only stares at the door, naked, flask in hand. She doesn’t know how late or early it is but she knows that it’s still pitch-black outside, that Mahvir doesn’t knock that way…

Something as simple as an unknown knock, but it puts a chill in her spine and sends her back to times she’d rather not remember.

“Krem, that you?” She calls out, easing from bed so her feet meet the floor soundlessly. “Spirits Lieutenant, it’s late, what do you want?”

“Krem’s sleeping like a baby.” Bull’s deep voice pushes through the door like his namesake. “And you know, so was I. Sleeping real good. But I had a real funny dream and,” he chuckles, and Kimani shrinks back at its sharpness, “I woke up with this headache that will. Not. _Stop_. You got anything for it, you think?”

He must be drumming his fingers on the door because a steady, soft thudding plays in the silence after his question.

“Yes,” she says, pulling the long-sleeved tunic she has repurposed for a nightgown over her head. She pulls on a pair of leggings as well before shoving her pack back between the nightstand and the bed, and leaves the knife she sleeps with under her pillows. “Here I come.”

Padding to the door gives her time to compose herself because he wasn’t supposed to have remembered her, and he sure as shit shouldn’t be at her door right now.

Bull fills the doorway easily; she only comes up to the center of his chest, something she hasn’t quite registered in the short time she has known him. How he looms, and how she has to crane her neck to look him in the eye when he is this close. He’s bare-chested of course and barefoot, his pants hastily laced so they hang loose on his hips.

She looks at his craggy face. “Headache, you say?”

“Mhmm.” Bull looks over her head, into her room. “Can’t sleep?” He beckons to her fire. “Told you to take another hit of the alcohol.”

“I did, if you remember,” Kimani counters, stepping aside to let him in. He lumbers past to stand in the center of the room, and she feels small scurrying around him. She doesn’t like how, even in the middle of the night, in the dark, him on the receiving end of her dream-walking, he still commands a presence in her room. “I’ll give you something should knock that pain right out.”

“Appreciate it,” he huffs, rubbing his forehead. “It’s hard enough trying to focus with just the one eye, you know. And in the beginning I got horrible headaches. Nothing like this, though. I want to throw up. Again. But I won’t, don’t worry,” he adds hastily, chuckling.

Kimani gives a half-hearted smile but tries to avoid eye contact as she moves back and forth, preparing a bit of fresh _nesomni_ from the ingredients she’d bought in town earlier.  Skullcap, thousand-leaf, water hyssop, and cinnamon, though the cinnamon is from what she keeps with her. Mahvir has teased her about the cinnamon forever it seems; good-naturedly, because she understands how important _nesomni_ is to Kimani.

  _Nesomni allows_ a _somniari_ to block themselves from the Fade. Whether they don’t trust themselves in the other realm due to anger, or grief, or the hunger, or they simply want the flat, safe sleep of the rest of the world, they can take the herbs mixed into a paste, and do so.  It is a choice where otherwise they have little. Sometimes the door needs to be closed.

It is also very good for headaches, and completely harmless for those without the gift.

“Sit down,” Kimani orders, pointing to the chair next to the far window. “Bring that over here.”

“You gonna tell me what that is?” Bull asks as he does as he’s told, lifting the chair like a leaf and carrying it over. He sits slumped, knees wide, his feet sprawled and stretched, a hand on his stomach.

“A Rivaini concoction that is very good for headaches and sleep.” Kimani grinds the herbs and spice together, adding a bit of water to the mix to create the paste.

“Get headaches often? Or is it the sleeping bit, or both?”

“Sleep,” she relents, glancing at him. Him and his questions. “I have problems with sleep. I have to lay a certain way in bed, even, or else I’ll wake up frozen in place for minutes. This helps.”

“I’ve heard of it, the stone-sleep. They say it’s common in mages. Demons.” Bull watches her as she brings the paste- still in the mortar she mixed it in- over to him. The chair is low and is supposed to make Kimani feel better, though she’s not sure if him looking up at her is any better than the other way around. “But you aren’t afraid of demons. Not even when they fall out of the sky.”

“I’ve dealt with more than enough to be comfortable killing them in any realm,” she says too quickly, freezing mid-reach when she realizes what she’s said. What he might be able to glean from what she’s said. She can’t gauge exactly how much he remembers of his dream; certainly he remembers something, or else why would he be here? Kimani doesn’t think that a man who carries rare poison antidote on his person doesn’t also carry something for headaches.

Bull looks at her half-extended hand, then back at her, and stretches a bit for the bowl, plucking it from her too-tight grip. “What, that’s some Rivaini mage stuff?” He chuckles as if he’s oblivious. “These southern mages mostly just dig around in books. But yours don’t have circles…ah…shit,” he falters, frowning. “Shit.”

Kimani doesn’t quite go cold- it has been almost two years. Almost. But she looks down at her feet. “We had one.”

“I know. Sorry. She told me-”

“-What all has my cousin to you about me?” Kimani asks, pushing the inevitable well of mourning down, down, and away, like she swallows the lump in her throat. “And _why_ did she tell you?” Why would Mahvir do that? Tell the ben-hassrath _so much_? As if she didn’t know? As if she lost all of her defenses with this man. She hadn’t even bedded him.

Bull sits up then, sitting the _nesomni_ in his lap. “I protect her and all of her information. I am somebody she can confide in. Maybe she trusts me because I don’t want anything from her- I just wanted to come on board and send some missives back to my headquarters. I don’t have any grand plans for her.”

“Information is not nothing.”

“No, Information is everything, but when the world either wants you to succeed for their benefit or fail for their prejudice, a bit of information in exchange for an anchor isn’t much,” he shrugs. “I protect her, and give her advice when she needs it, and offer her trust. That’s my job- it’s my only job, now. It’s all I’ve got, as you saw tonight. Twice, hopefully. I don’t like being in pain for nothing.”

His meaning is unmistakable; he holds her gaze as easily as he holds the _nesomni_ , watching while she tries and fails at a response. Later, she’ll blame the effect of the poison, the effect, perhaps, of the _maraas-lok_ , the broken dream-walking. Now she can only press her mouth firmly shut and sigh.

Bull gives her a small, knowing smile. “I need to do be able to do my job, Kimani. I need you to let me do my job.”

Kimani steps back as he stands up slowly, grunting under his breath. As he looks down at her she decides yes, she prefers him sitting to standing. Definitely the other way around; like this she feels stretched, and far too vulnerable just trying to look him in the eye.

“Think you can do that?” He asks, pulling trousers up a bit with his free hand and scratching his stomach. And she doesn’t mean to watch him do it, but she can’t seem to help it. And she has to drag her gaze up and away.

“Yeah,” she says, clearing her throat. “I’ll let you do your job.”

He grins. “Thank you. Now…I just…eat this nasty-looking shit, huh. It looks like it tastes like dirt.” Peering into the bowl only makes him grimace. “And it’s gonna heal my headache?”

Kimani scoffs, reaching up to dip her finger in the paste. The earthy, nutmeg-y taste is neither good nor bad to her after so long; now, it’s just familiar.

“It tastes fine, don’t complain. It’ll clear your headache and put you back to sleep. You’ll wake up refreshed.” She sucks the _nesomni_ off her finger, and shrugs.

“I feel bad I’m taking it all, then.”

“Just take it,” Kimani says, pushing the bowl to his chest when he tries to offer her more.

He nods. “And just…with my fingers?” He scoops some paste up with two massive fingers and puts it in his mouth. For a moment it looks as if he’ll be fine, but then he pauses as the bitter thousand-leaf hits, and his face twists into something ghastly. “Fucking nasty. I changed my mind, I don’t want it. I’ll just suffer. Ugh.”

Kimani laughs, shaking her head. “Finish it. I can still taste that antidote. Disgusting.”

“That was a matter of life or death,” Bull grumbles, but he scoops the rest of the paste up and into his mouth. “I can weather a headache.”

“Sure.” Kimani plucks the bowl from his hands and skirts around him, towards the door. “Now, goodnight.”

Bull scoffs, and follows her. She ushers him out of the room and goes to close the door when he holds it open. Kimani waits, snowy brow cocked in confusion.

“I’m grateful to you. Just…want you to know that. For what you did for them. But I need you to keep out of my head. I need that to be clear, as much fun as I’ve had dancing around with you tonight.” He moves slowly enough for her to react and when she doesn’t, he squeezes her shoulder. His touch is warm and rough; Kimani only now realizes that she’s cold.

“I know,” she says immediately, shifting beneath his hand as it slides over her arm. “I will. I’ll keep out.”

He nods, and after a beat, finally moves out of the doorway. “Goodnight, Kimani.”

“Goodnight.” Kimani watches him thud down the hallway until the darks swallows him up. She stands in her doorway until she hears a door open and click shut. Only then does she take in-truly take in- that she’s been handled.

He had done it gently, but she was handled nonetheless.

*

Bull washes as much of the weird paste’s aftertaste away as he possibly can before getting back in bed.

_That went well._

He had woken from his dream- he only remembers bits, but he remembers her looking at him, those honey eyes as wide as he’s ever seen them, when there was a white-haired body already at his feet- groaning in pain, soaked in sweat. Fearful. It hadn’t been pretty. At first he thought this was it, that this was how the madness started, that he was fucked already, so fucked, he might as well fuck off to the woods and let the bears end it.

Imagine that, letting a bear do him in. He’s killed more bears than he can count, easy.

In the end, after a bit of a snack and a shot, he managed to calm himself down and think through what has happened.

Bull had known from the sharp silence after his knock on the door that Kimani had something more to do with it than whatever latent thoughts he had about her surfacing in a nightmare. And while he’d been pretty pissed he also didn’t want to scare her, and really needed something for his headache. Still he had her squirm a little but not too much; he’s already seen what she does when backed into a corner. She’s a scrappy fighter, full of rage for what, Bull doesn’t yet know. He does know he doesn’t want her turning any of that on him again. Can’t remember the last time he’d seen a mage fight like that.

He’d mentioned the Dairsmuid Circle on purpose, too. Petty, but it made him feel a little better, which is pretty shitty. Then it made him feel a little bad after. How it humbled her almost resolutely afterward.

Mahvir hadn’t mentioned much about Dairsmuid, and her pain in speaking even a bit about it had been transparent. Same with Kimani, so Bull can assume they lost someone because of it. And Kimani is protective of her family- Bull hadn’t answered just how much Mahvir had told him about her, because the answer was very little beyond her being a mage and a Dreamer, like Solas. Said she could be a little stern, and that was part her nature and part some unfortunate nurture. Said she was a skilled mage, which Bull can see for himself. As far as he’s concerned, the next behind the Boss in importance is her. Maybe if the Boss wasn’t so attached, a cousin coming along to help wouldn’t be an issue. But these women were bonded beyond the formalities of blood and the little argument they’d had in the forest- and Kimani’s left hook- told a bigger story of their connection.

What’s important is that she’ll let him do his job.

Bull sighs and sinks further into bed, minding his horns. He feels better thinking things through. Gives him some distance from that other ache.

The paste works; he feels calm and drowsy, his muscles relaxed and his breathing deep. He’s not sure how long there is until sunrise, but at least he’ll be able to get good sleep for whatever is left of the night.

Tomorrow, they’ll be on the road again.


	5. Chapter 5

Skyhold, when it finally comes into view, is a welcome sight; everyone breathes a sigh of relief despite knowing that the next destination- Orlais and The Winter Palace- doesn’t leave much time for relaxation. The trip to the Storm Coast had eaten up a small but considerable chunk of time, but Skyhold carried on in their brief absence.

Kimani is glad to be off of the road; it’s too cold, and the small room she’d accepted in Skyhold warms quickly and easily. Mahvir had wanted to give her something grander and closer to her own room, and Kimani had almost accepted until she discover a small and forgotten corner just as close to the Inquisitor’s chambers. It was far more comfortable and easier to manage; it smelled of cloves and sage and lemon before the end of her first day, and she got good enough light from her small window. She had to switch out for a smaller brazier, but she was never cold. That was most important.

She hears everyone’s footsteps, though, as they climb the steps to Mahvir’s chamber. Often it is runners, and Sera, and the advisers in the evening. Blackwall has made the climb a few times without descending for hours, and the Iron Bull is another frequent visitor. Kimani learns the footsteps of the Inquisition before she learns many of their characters.

It’s fine by her. She doesn’t mind the noise.

On the third day back from the Storm Coast, Mahvir greets her cheerily just before sunrise and promises her fresh biscuits and jam in return for a favor.

“The elvhen-led inquisition showing up to the party with newly acquire qunari forces could have gone a few ways,” Mahvir says thoughtfully in the war room, surrounded by her advisers. The room is drafty and dull, too big for the table they gather around in its center. Southern Thedas sits beneath their hands, pock-marked by past pins and decorated with their current and future plans. Kimani doesn’t know why she’s here, but a bribe of fresh biscuits is one of the few bribes that works on her, even by treacherous cousins.

_But you’re not supposed to dwell. You resolved it. You’re here with her and for her, and she is with you._

“Could have, would have,” Leliana says dismissively, pulling Kimani from her thoughts. “Let us think about the impression you intend to make now. You want to bring the Iron Bull and your cousin to Halamshiral. A Qunari spy-”

“-Ex spy,” Mahvir adds.

“Irrelevant, and a Rivaini mage. A hedge-witch, if you’ll forgive the term, is what _they_ will see fit to call her. If I remember correctly, Empress Celene supported the purging of Dairsmuid Circle,” Leliana says, glancing at an as-yet-unmoved Kimani. It doesn’t surprise her in the least; in fact, she only suspects so much from the southern monarch.

“I don’t understand how they are any more controversial than myself.” Mahvir shakes her head. Her earrings- heavy bone circles engraved with the crests of both her families- clink noisily in protest. “And why, if we all are going- including Solas- that these two give you the most grief, Leliana.”

Kimani keeps quiet and watches, nursing her mug of tea. Cullen stands tense and uncomfortable between the women, but he dare not speak. Josephine doesn’t look quite bored, but more so resigned to wait it out, wait for her chance to come in and provide a middle ground. Not stressed at all, but she’s a diplomat; surely this isn’t the worst she’s seen her peers so far into this endeavor.

“Vivienne serves a purpose. Cassandra, Warden Blackwall, even Dorian all serve very pointed purposes,” Leliana argues, tapping her hand in emphasis on the war table. “Sera will be gathering information from her…friends…and the spirit you say has promised to both remain quiet and invisible. The Iron Bull and Serah Trevelyan both provide more opportunity to discredit you, whom they already prepare to deride, than they offer anything of use.”

Mahvir falls silent, frustrated and frowning, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Kimani cocks a brow, waiting for her cousin to snap back and widening her eyes where she does not.

 _They have changed you in smaller ways it seems,_ ahat.

In all honesty, Kimani doesn’t care whether Celene lives or dies. She doesn’t care about Orlais at all beyond damning it and its Chantry to the void. But she won’t stand by, whether in Skyhold or their villa in Halamshiral, as Mahvir once again puts her life on the line.

And she won’t let these vultures push her around.

“We act as decoy,” she offers, surprised as the rest of them at the weight of her voice in the tense silence. “Big, horned beast and the ghost-haired witch, while you hunt for your assassins. They’re going to discredit her regardless and in the end if we are successful, does it matter if they don’t like her ears, or our blood, or his horns? Perhaps those you seek will be shaken by our presence as well; Rivain and Par Vollen are about as mysterious as the Fade to these people. They won’t know how to act, gods willing. We’ll behave,” she adds when Leliana opens her mouth, “Well, I speak for myself- I’ll behave. I am only here to help. Won’t do much good to remain in Skyhold. Might as well come along.”

“And the Iron Bull? Speaking in his favor strikes me odd,” Leliana says easily, turning to Kimani full on. “I was under the assumption that we were kindred in our distrust of him.”

Kimani laughs; nothing gets past the Nightingale, and nothing- not even Mahvir’s glare at the side of her face- stops her from speaking her truth.  It is the one thing she likes about Leliana aside from the pretty shape of her rosebud mouth.

“My cousin, the Inquisitor, wants The Iron Bull there,” she says simply, leveling with the spymaster. “Of anyone in this room, her space to choose is limited by the blight on her hand. Perhaps she won’t say it so bluntly, but that’s why I’m here.” She smiles sweetly at Leliana and hopes the passive message of ‘you don’t scare me’ rings clear. “If she chooses to bring him, she should be allowed that small thing. She has given you all her life and her skills. Give her the fucking qunari.”

Leliana’s mouth presses into a thin line. Cullen is the opposite; his mouth hangs wide, tilted into an open smile as he looks at Kimani. Josephine hides herself behind her clipboard.

Mahvir lifts her chin a little, biting her lip against a giggle.

“So be it,” the spymaster concedes. The tension in the room disperses like a gust of wind.

Kimani sips her tea.

*

As soon as Bull gets back to Skyhold and to his room, he assesses. He drops his gear on the floor, looks up at the hole in his ceiling, looks over at the paper-wrapped glass he’s going to figure out how to cover the hole with. His things are all in order, his bedspread without a wrinkle even if the bedding itself it a bit old and worn. He’d bought a black rug off of one of the merchants who’d set up shack in the keep; it is supposed to be a bear shag, but Bull has his doubts. Still, it keeps his feet warm.

He starts a fire in his hearth and chews on the last of his nug jerky. Good and spicy.

The rest of their journey back had been uneventful and quiet. Bull had gotten exactly one good sentence out of Krem if he strung all of the disparate words together, and a few frowns from the rest of his boys. That was good, a start.

And he’s feeling…better? Maybe. Maybe that’s what it is, because he makes it back to Skyhold without too much issue. If he has nightmares, he only remembers a few and none of them feature a certain white-haired mage. He makes the boss laugh, and he feels like laughing himself. The boss is feeling better as well, but she has options: Krem might not necessarily forgive her, but the person that really matters, the one she needs, has.

Bull cannot relate, but he can survive. Mahvir couldn’t, not the way she’d lit up when her cousin arrived at Skyhold. So it’s good for her, having Kimani around and forgiving. As for himself, he’ll figure something out.

First, though, he’s got a bit of catching up to do. Therapy, if you will.

Mahvir teases him about his many lovers, about the things she hears but only the things that don’t upset her. Bull knows that for the most part, the people he fucks keep the trysts to themselves. He knows why, but silence is easier to ignore. The ones who like to chat about their night(s) with the Bull fall in one of two categories; those who just like talking about sex, and those who like bragging about the time they were brave enough to bed a qunari. Those who fall in that latter category make Mahvir upset, and Bull can always tell when she omits something untoward she’s heard about him. Always; he admires her for it, for trying to save his feelings. It’s adorable.

Brigit falls into neither category; as far as he knows, she keeps what they do to herself. And really, no one needs to know that one of the better cooks at  _Herald’s Rest_  is really into getting her ass eaten. But shit, she has a great ass. And the payoff is spectacular; she’s nothing but soft curves and sweet moans and just lets him have his way after. Very docile, though she is firm on her boundaries. Sweet-smelling and plump and eager. Bull always has fun with Brigit; she’s a sweet lady, if a little quiet. She likes her space when they aren’t in bed, but she never outright ignores him like some others do. And sometimes he gets a great meal out of it, which, heh, is definitely a perk.

And then there’s Hamar, and Hamar likes to wrestle and lose. The soldier is thick and muscular, a bit soft around the belly. A bit like Bull, in smaller form. And without horns. He likes to flex, and Bull likes to watch, and then he likes to watch those muscles jump as he grinds himself into the beautiful man’s ass. Hamar has long, auburn hair that brings out the red in his dusky skin, and he smells like sage. Bull likes him because he can’t quite place where the man is from, and it’s part of the game that puts a sly smile on his face. His accent is so Fereldan that anyone else would think it native. Bull likes a bit of mystery when it’s not going to hurt him to keep it.

And there are others, there have been others, but Bull finds Hamar first on his return to the fortress. The soldier isn’t on patrol until evening, and they spend a couple hours horsing around, knocking up against wall and floor and mattress. Hamar will stick around and cuddle for a while, and he always leaves definitively, confidently. No lingering to see if Bull will ask him back, no strange back-and-forth to force the same. Bull likes that, likes people who know what they want. He always smiles at Bull before he leaves which is nice, too.

Brigit he can’t find until much later, and not for nearly as long, but she’s eager and fun for the time they do have. She’s in a great mood, and she has a great smile, and Bull makes sure she’s still smiling when they’ve finished. She’s pale as a ghost and Bull makes sure she’s a bit ruddy by the end, a bit of flush to give her soft cheeks some dimension. She rides him like a horse master and Bull comes with a grin. Gives her a big kiss before she leaves.

Sometimes, he picks them very well.

“It does me well to see you smiling,” Mahvir says a few days after they return, when they sit together in Herald’s Rest. She licks jam from her fingers even before their tavern meals come out from the kitchen, and there are crumbs on her mouth. “I’m guessing you’ve had good company since coming back?” She dresses plainly, and still with style; fine tan tunic and tan riding pants with matching calfskin boots and gloves. Always with the gloves. Her hair falls over her shoulder in a tight braid, tied with brown leather cord. She looks put together; understated and still authoritative.

Bull nods. “Very good company. And you look at ease yourself.”

“Company, though markedly different from yours I think,” she says with a smirk. “And it’s just nice to be back. Nice to have a proper wash. My hair is actually clean.” She smells like a bucket of flowers, fresh and light, and the aroma wafts as she throws her braid behind her. “I assume you’ve heard nothing else from the Ben-Hassrath.”

“You assume right,” Bull says, settling in. She’d been livid when she learned about the assassination attempt, and about what had nearly happened in that alley. Bull had to talk her down from the heights of her anger, had to try to wrangle someone who does not like to be wrangled.

She ended up crying with a death grip on her knives. Who she’d planned on knifing, Bull still doesn’t know.

“And you’re alright?”

Bull chuckles. “Yes, boss. As alright as I was the last time you asked. I’m good. I’m really good, today. Shit regulates, and we keep moving.”

“Has Kimani been bothering you?”

Bull shakes his head; he has only seen her once since they’ve returned, passed her on a morning stroll along the ramparts.

Mahvir tries to suss something out from him with her sharp gaze, and Bull just re-plays the highlights of his last couple days in his head until she seems satisfied that he’s not lying. Which is kinda funny, considering, heh.

“I suppose so,” she relents. “I suppose I simply worry too much. But you know yourself. Still, haven’t seen you with the Chargers.”

“Now  _that_ , I can’t control,” Bull shrugs nonchalantly, and that gesture is such a lie. “I can only wait, and hope.”

They both look over at where the Chargers congregate; Bull already knew a few of them had been eying him and Mahvir for a little while, but it’s a surprise for the boss. She waves because she’s polite and because she’s the boss, so they wave back. Krem even puts on a little smile, but it’s stiff as a board.

And then, she crooks her finger at him.  _Come here._

Krem freezes. His eyes flick between them, his hand tightens on his mug, but he pushes back from the table. Fixes his jacket. Comes like he’s called, and stands like he’s in full armor, waiting for an order.

Bull wishes that she hadn’t, really. Let Krem enjoy his evening. But it seems where Bull relents control, Mahvir picks up the reins and pulls. That’s something he needs to keep watch for, especially when they head over to Halamshiral.

“Your Worship,” Krem greets her, nodding curtly at Bull. “Iron Bull.”

Rough, still; Mahvir frowns.

“I wonder how we can repair what is broken between you.”

“ _We_  cannot, my lady,” Krem says firmly, squaring his jaw. “It doesn’t concern you, no offense.”

“Even if I had nothing to do with what happened on the Storm Coast- which I bloody well do- any issues with the members of my team is my business.”

“Not if it doesn’t affect our purpose. Which it will not, I’m better than my emotions. Lady,” Krem adds stiffly, his irritation apparent in how it creeps red up his neck. Bull knows the kid is stubborn, that’s what’s gotten him so far. That’s why he’s Bull’s guy. But it isn’t really…helping him now. It’s just backing him up with shit.

“I never said you weren’t, Cremisius,” Mahvir says gently. “I’m only saying that it isn’t fair to give Bull anger that also belongs to me.”

Again with this. Bull cuts his eye at the boss. She’s gotta stop with the guilt thing.

Krem isn’t moved. “Worship, I am fully aware of who I’m angry at, and why.” He stares at her hard then, until she falters a little. A weakness, because she cares for him and it softens her. “Whatever I “give” to Bull is whatever he deserves.” Finally, he looks at Bull straight. He glares and when he gets no quarrel back, he sighs.

“Outside.”

Bull blinks. He has an urge to lighten the mood, but it’d be a failure. And Krem needs to see that he’s serious about this making up business.

“Let’s go, damn it. Outside.”

“Go on, Bull.” Mahvir pours what’s left in his mug into hers; when had she drained her cup? “I’ve got more than a few friends to keep me company.”

“And here I thought what we had was special,” Bull jokes as he stands. Mahvir pats at his stomach with a tiny hand, giving him a smile that wishes him luck.

He thinks that he’s gonna need more than that.

Bull follows Krem’s swift gait, stretching his legs to keep the distance between them minimal. It only takes him a few steps to realize Krem leads them to the sparring ring down in the lower court, and this relaxes him somehow; most things make more sense in the ring. If Krem is gonna beat the shit out of him or not is another question. Bull could handle that though. Shit, that’d probably work well on both ends.

But as they stand in the ring, just staring at each other, Bull thinks he’s not getting hit with anything but words and feelings and that is  _so_  much harder.

“You taught me the structure of a good fight,” Krem begins, pacing the width of the ring. He removes his pair of leather gloves and sticks them in his back pocket, his hands tawny and dry as he rubs them together. “You showed me how a battlefield was like a sparring ring. When it was good to keep to boundary and how to break those boundaries when need be. You taught me most everything I know. I was proud of that.”

Bull has things to say, but he bites his lip and waits. He fidgets; folds his arms and realizes that its domineering, puts his hands on his hips but then, that’s demanding.

At his sides, his arms feel like weights.

“Never seen you so unsure,” Krem notes with a twitch of brow. “Never seen you out of it. And you’ve been out of it, chief.”

They both start then, at the mistake. Fuck, it feels so good to hear that “chief,” even if on accident. Even if Krem scowls.

“The rest of the boys don’t really know what to think. Skinner wanted to stab you. Still wants to stab you, I think. Rocky and Stitches have been as quiet as Grim, which is saying something. They don’t want to talk about it. They want me to do it, and I think that’s fine. And I want to do it myself. Dalish cried; I’ve never seen Dalish cry, Bull.”

“I know what I did,” Bull says slowly, wiping his palms on his pants. He looks around the dark ring and sees practice equipment stacked neatly in the four corners. The ropes that square off the space smell like hemp, freshly oiled. A couple stools stacked on top of each other rise like a wooden specter to Krem’s right.

To passers-by, it may well seem like they’re two men about to engage in some early evening, practice ass-kicking. And that’d be so much easier than listening to how he’s hurt the people he needs most. Especially now.

“I know you know what you did,” Krem says dully. “You always know.  _You always know_ , that’s your thing. Caring is the bit that’s always been beyond you.”

“If you’re looking for a heartfelt spill of feelings…I’m not quite at that point in whatever is happening to me,” Bull says apologetically, shrugging. “I know what I did and how it has changed me. It  _has_  changed me, Krem, already. I don’t quite know what I am right now.”

“Tal-Vashoth,” Krem offers, raising his eyebrow. “A bald-faced rejection of the Qun you loved so much. Turncoat, traitor on both sides.”

Every word is a stab in an open wound, and every one of them true. Bull sighs heavily, but he doesn’t lower is gaze. Krem isn’t trying to hurt him, he doesn’t think. Krem is trying to bring him to something. That’s his thing: always pushing Bull in subtle ways, laying the truth out like a Ben-Hassrath agent, or a Seeker. Always demanding the best of Bull. Part of the way he gives his life to Bull every day is trying to keep Bull honest.

That’s actually really funny.

“I am all of those things,” Bull agrees, “and I’m a bunch of things that I don’t yet know how to name. And I’m sorry, Krem. To you in particular, and to the boys. I wanna make it right.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Yeah well, it hasn’t stopped being true.” Bull shrugs. He doesn’t know what else to give Krem but this. It’s all he has that makes sense to him; very little else but fucking, fighting, the usual, makes sense to him. Things that were part of his act that are no longer part of his act, things that he does with no ulterior motive. He has no image to uphold, no games to play but his own.

Right now, he just doesn’t want to go mad.

“I could tell you all everything,” Bull offers, the idea on his mind and on his tongue at the same time, a burst of inspiration. “From the jump. Everything I was ordered, I planned, when it changed, what it means. What it meant,” he corrects himself. “And what we can be- what The Chargers can be- without my superiors. Without a Ben-Hassrath leader. I can give that, if you all want.”

Krem frowns, but it is contemplative. Bull can see the telltale signs of “yes” on his face, the way he licks his lips when he likes a suggestion. But he’s holding out on Bull. Bull can wait.

“Well,  _I_  sure as fuck want to know all that.”

Both men turn to Grim’s rare voice, shocked. Grim’s arms are folded over his chest, his hair a bit disheveled- most likely from a drunk Dalish ruffling it too much.

“Yeah, I think I would, too.” Rocky joins him, twirling his mustache. “Skinner sent us to see. She’s got her hands full with Dalish.”

Grim grunts.

“Hey, guys,” Bull says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey.”

“Just so you know, Krem had to talk me down from no less than two-and no more than five- attempts to blow you back to Qunandar in pieces,” Rocky says, frowning. “That was a bullshit move you fucked up on. Glad you fucked up.”

Bull huffs. “Yeah. Me, too.”

Rocky stares him down a moment before nodding. “I guess you must be. Heard you’re out of the big, horned, murder club.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Bull chuckles. His chest hurts a little, but it  _is_  kind of funny.

“Killed a few of them.”

“Yeah, I did. Had to.”

Rocky nods some more, like this all makes sense. “So what, you’re all alone now, huh. No more letters. You liked your letters.”

No, no more letters; Bull swallows. “I did.”

“Yeah,” Rocky grunts. He turns his gaze to Krem, and shrugs. “Bastard’s right pitiful at this point, Krem. What are the Chargers if not a charitable organization?”

Krem scoffs. “We charge for our services, Rocky.”

“And he’s offering payment. Information is indeed a currency, boy. Even I know this. Besides, I’m tired of your grouching. Baby Bull needs his daddy back, still got a few things to learn ‘fore you can think about being chief yourself.” The dwarf grins, waggling his eyebrows. The glee is only for Krem, who goes red and scowly. “Not to mention it’ll make Dalish happy. Dalish is happy, Skinner is happy. Don’t know about you, but I can’t take much more of an unhappy Skinner.”

They can all agree on this; even a chipper Skinner is a trial most days. Bull can only imagine if Rocky’d wanted to kill him five times, Skinner was at least double that.

But this is good. This is hopeful. Already, Bull can already feel the ground solidifying beneath his feet.

Krem sighs, showy and loud. But he relents.

“Lavellan is sending us to break up some ruckus in the valley before she makes her way to Halamshiral.”

Bull nods. “Yeah, I know.”

“’Course you do. Forgot who I’m talking to that quick,” Krem smirks. “Then you know the drill.”

Relief rushes him like a wave. “Sure do, seeing as I handcrafted the drill,” Bull says, shrugging as he exits the ring. He thinks this is good, that he leaves first, let them ruminate on this and decide. It’s all on them. He’ll take what they give him and be fucking grateful. “I’ll be there and ready to roll.”

“Uh huh.” Krem watches him go, arms folded.

Bull has to admit, he’s proud of the kid. It takes a lot to hold strong like that. He knows Rocky threw him a bone and for that, he is ever-grateful. And proud of Krem all the more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think so far! Chapter 6 (which is new) is in progress, and should be up within the week.


End file.
